Mesmerize
by PADavis
Summary: Incessantly ringing payphones can be painful in more ways than one. Hurt!Dean. Rated T for Language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. She likes Dean whumppage as much as I do. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine. Many thanks as well to Silver Ruffian who patiently, oh so patiently, helped me figure out how to post this.

Supernaturally ringing payphones inspired by Tim Powers' _Last Call_. Don't ever answer them. Really. I'm perfectly serious.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

About half an hour after getting to the room, Dean was showered, under the sheets, dosed up to his ears with ibuprofen, and unbelievably tired. Up all night playing tag with a maniacal poltergeist at the Home Depot's new supernatural theme park, they'd finally toasted the sucker, and got back to the motel's parking lot just before dawn. He's got the bed by the door, as usual, which means he's also got the window, through which, despite twitching the curtains a couple of times, the sun has managed to get through and hit him directly in the eye. To make things worse, the invasion was accompanied by the monotonous tapping of Sam at the laptop, and an array of Sammy sound effects - huffs, sighs, the glass hitting the table top, and paper shuffling.

Pulling a pillow over his head, he got a few minutes of quiet darkness and finally started to feel like he was melting into the bed, entering that weird daydreaming stream-of-consciousness place that's just barely a step on the other side of the door to sleep. He's feeding Nip-Chee crackers to a red squirrel at a picnic table and wondering again about the little tufts of fur on its ears, and thinking they are way cuter than those gray ones, except maybe for that black one he saw in Virginia years and years ago … when he was abruptly brought back to the waking world by a ringing telephone.

Not just any ring either – it's a blaring, incessant, ear splitting, old fashioned cowbell phone ring. It sounds like a Chuck Jones cartoon rotary phone, with all over the top reactions - shaking and tossing the receiver right off the cradle and into the air with each ring. Groaning, he removed the pillow and rolled over, cracking his left eye open to survey the telecommunication devices. Okay, it wasn't the room phone, not a cell, not the laptop, in fact he couldn't see it at all, and why the fuck is it so goddamn loud if he can't see it and he's trying to sleep, and friggin' insomnia boy over there was still tapping and tapping and tapping. He's at the point of the slow climb to the top on the 'I'm almost too tired to sleep' ride that he found so quickly at the Home Depot earlier, so it took a second or two to finally realize the phone must be outside – a pay phone or something just as heinous.

"Hey – are you OK? Thought you'd be drooling into the pillow by now." Sam was just way too damn chipper.

"I wish you were drooling onto your computer." Oh, great - now he couldn't get into the Sarcasm seat for the Sammy roller coaster ride. He's not even sure he could find it. Clearing his throat, and sighing dramatically, he did the next best thing. He bitched. "When are you ever going to freaking sleep?"

"What? The laptop's suddenly louder? Want me to make it sound like a chainsaw?"

Why did he ever tell Sam about Texas Chainsaw Massacre? He put an arm over his eyes. "It's just that the damned phone won't stop ringing."

"Oh, uh, well I'm as done as I'm going to be tonight." Sam powered down the laptop and winced a bit as he stood and stretched out his left arm. "I'm sure you won't hear much of anything soon - I mean, you were pretty beat before we took out that spirit last night. I still think it's seriously a miracle that you didn't get a concussion. I swear you broke that toilet with your head." He tried not to laugh, he really did, but he couldn't help it.

"Bite me." He frowned. "How's your back?" He cut his eyes over to Sam and got a very good look at the back of Sam's t-shirt. "And why the hell are you wearing my Pink Floyd tour shirt?"

"I keep telling you it's nothing, Dean. It was just a couple of stitches." Sam arranged himself in the bed. "I can even sleep on my right side. I'm fine. My shirt however was a goner and this was the only thing I could find between the two of us that didn't smell." Sam scrupulously was not going to remind Dean that it was in fact Sam's turn to do the laundry.

"You mean that dog one?" When Sam sadly agreed, Dean breathed a very quiet sigh of relief. God, he hated that shirt. It was like Sam was wearing a twisted canine self portrait - all skinny giraffe legs, long jaw and puppy eyes. Except for the hair, he admitted, but still an eerie likeness. "You're too tall for my shirt – unless you want to look even more like a teenage girl and do that whole bare midriff look."

"I'll be sure to stretch it out really well before I give it back."

He knew perfectly well it was more than a couple of stitches. "OK. I'll check the bandages in the morning after your shower." He rolled to face Sam. "Man, I've got a killer headache and that phone is driving me nuts. Promise me you won't wake me up for hours … I mean it Sammy … not until there's coffee and donuts in _this_ room. Maybe some of those Boston cream ones, or one of those chocolate ones, or a hot glazed..."

Sam laughed again. "And you complain when I don't sleep enough - well you've got me beat this week. Tell you what, why don't you just close your eyes and dream about donuts – don't talk about them."

Dean could only offer a single digit gesture in reply.

Then finally, the phone stopped ringing. All was right with the world. It was quiet at last, and while it was brighter, the sun's angle has changed enough to get the light out of his face. He stretched, rolled back on his stomach, found his knife right where he left it, and imagined he was a stick of butter in the microwave. He's just about to melt into a deliciously warm puddle, and in his mind's eye squirrels and deer and little bitty birds are now eating out his hand, when that god damn phone started to ring again. Fucking ruining the Disney moment.

He tried the pillow over the head technique again. He can outwait it, they'll eventually give up – he knew he could outwait it. He breathed deeply, consciously relaxed his shoulders and neck a bit, considered then discarded the idea of taking another ibuprofen, listened to the asthmatic air conditioning, and tried to will himself to sleep. He tried equally hard not to wince every time that possessed piece of plastic technology rang. How stupid does someone have to be to let a phone ring like that? After 100 rings you've got to figure _that no is going to answer! _Morons!

After what seemed like an hour, but according to the clock was less than 17 minutes, he heaved himself out of bed and practically heard the snap crackle pop in his back and shoulders. He hurt in places that shouldn't hurt. And there was Sam, asleep, mouth wide open, already snoring. God damn it – how could the Princess and the proverbial Pea sleep through that ruckus when a fucking pin dropping woke him up?

Pulling on his jeans from the wad of clothes next to the bed, he snagged a room key, unlocked the door, but before he stepped out into the brilliant new morning, he backed up carefully and put down the gun that he didn't remember picking up. Huh.

He selected instead a particularly nasty switchblade from the weapons duffle, slipped it in his pocket, just in case, and went out barefoot, closing the door quietly behind him. Forgot to put on a shirt too he realized as a breeze raises a few goose bumps. He laughed a bit at himself when he found himself pushing his shoulders back and straightening, like there's going to be an audience or something in the parking lot. Say, an audience like a sorority carwash posse in the parking lot, with charitable girls and suds. And sponges … Now that's what he should be dreaming about, girls in little bikinis, lathered in soapy bubbles … yessiree … not cutsey-pie squirrels and fuckin' Bambi.

Looking around him, he noted, categorized, and sorted by threat level: 7 parked cars, light traffic on the main road to his right towards the motel office, a couple of pigeons, someone walking through the store parking lot divided from the motel lot by a 6 foot hurricane fence, litter, and one demonically possessed ringing phone about 20 yards down from him on the left. Glancing up, he confirmed that the roof line was clear. Hadn't forgotten to do _that_ since Sam was in college, and Dad had left him with a car, coordinates, no cash, and a bad credit card to cover the room at that Spacey-something motel in Cocoa Beach. The time an enraged leftover from their 'we finished that fugly sucker' hunt dropped onto his goddamned head in the middle of the day. Too bad the sorority girls would notice that scar. He seriously hated Florida.

Once the early morning walker used a key to enter the store relegating him to "manager" and "not suspicious" status, Dean moved the phone to threat number one. He padded to the phone and did something he'd never done before. He didn't take the receiver off the cradle and drop it, he didn't shoot the phone since he regrettably left his gun in the room, he didn't rip the phone entirely off the wall, crush it, and take the change – he answered it.

He roared into the receiver – "Who the hell are you and why are you calling this number?"

At first he heard nothing. Just as he decided that the next step on his agenda of destruction should be ripping the handset off the phone and using it to beat the rest of it to smithereens, he made out something just on the edge of his hearing. A familiar voice and - music? He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated to make out the words. But as the voice became clearer, the music got less distinct. It was still there, but he can't quite recognize the tune even though he's sure he would if it was just a little louder. The voice was speaking, low and intense.

He felt his brow start to smooth, and he couldn't stop blinking. All he could do was stand and listen. Finally, his own lips moved, and he heard himself say, "Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. I will, sir." And then all he could hear was the music, and it was louder, and oh that's what it is, and with that, everything just stopped.


	2. Simon Templar cool

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine.

This is second season, T for lots of cussing.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Sam wasn't at all sure why he woke up. The room wasn't pitch black anymore – the rising sun provided slim illumination around the drawn curtains. It took him a second to realize that someone had just come into their room, and since that someone wasn't flattened on the floor, immobilized under the weight of his knife wielding big brother, it could only be Dean coming in. And he wouldn't have woken up at all if Dean had just come in, well, like Dean. Dean's normal state was hunter - alert and silent. Even after a year back with his brother, Dean could sneak up on Sam like he was sound asleep. And in what tipped the Sam-o-meter frustration level to orange, he'd barely managed to sneak up on Dean two or three times in his whole life. Dean owned the Sixth Sense Stealth store while Sam was only a good customer. So when Dean came in, making enough noise to wake him, then something was definitely wrong.

Sam warily opened one eye and checked the clock on the table between the beds. Dean wouldn't have had enough time to get to a bar for a drink, even if he'd found a bar open at this hour. Of course, no bar would have let him in wearing only a pair of jeans. Eyebrows raised, he watched as Dean made his way across the room. He was moving a little mechanically, stiff legged, shoulders back, and head up. When Dean got close enough for Sam to see his face, it was blank, his eyes vacant and dark, his lips moving as he whispered to himself. If Sam were superstitious, and he was, he would have thought that Dean had gone out for a walk and not quite all of him had come back. That's when his felt his heart start to race and he fought to slow down his breathing.

"… Dean? Are you alright?"

"Yeah". It was barely audible, but at least he'd heard Sam. Dean didn't look at him, just angled for the bed.

"Where did you go just now?"

"Outside."

"Outside?" Crap, he was starting to sound like Dean's echo.

"Not, um, not far, just outside…" Dean sat on the edge of the bed, arms on his knees, hands hanging down, just staring at the carpet while shaking his head - like he wanted to say something else, but couldn't quite remember what.

"Why'd you go outside?"

Dean's head came up and to Sam's relief, his face wasn't blank, in fact he looked a little angry. This time the answer was firmer, but still flat, "I had to answer the phone. It wouldn't stop ringing."

"_I_ didn't hear anything."

"The pay phone outside, Sam." Another deep breath and Dean didn't look angry anymore, just puzzled. "There was no one there. I thought… but," another pause, and finally, "it's nothing." His eyes were open and wide, looking almost black, until Dean finally blinked and breathed heavily through his nose, scrubbing his eyes as he stretched out his back and neck.

God, Sam thought. He's exhausted - he looks almost transparent. "Dean –"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Do you think you could go to sleep now?"

"Do you want me to?" It was like he genuinely didn't know what to do.

"Yeah", his voice deep with concern, "I want you to. You look like road kill."

"OK, Sam." Dean laid down, body relaxing, one uncertain hand reaching to pull up the covers. Sam stood and slowly approached the bed.

"Do you want me to help you with your jeans?"

"… somethin' wrong with 'em?" he slurred a bit. Dean's eyes, green again and already drooping, slowly opened to fasten onto Sam's blue green ones.

"No man, they're fine. They're just on you - let me help you take them off OK? Then you can sleep as long as you want. We'll talk about the phone later."

"Nothin' to talk 'bout, Sam."

Dean was asleep the instant Sam pulled up the covers, breathing deeply, his body lax. Lying on his back he looked eerily still. Sam watched him for what seemed to be hours, waiting for him to roll over and curl up with his knife, snore, drape an arm over the side of the bed, _anything_ that was normal Dean sleeping behavior.

He was still watching when his own eyes slipped shut. He wasn't at all that sure that he was looking forward to Dean waking up.

OOOOO

When Dean did wake, it was to the smell of coffee, the sound of the shower running, and his hand holding his favorite knife. It looked to be mid morning. Sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor, he decided he actually felt pretty good. His headache was gone, he felt rested, and he wasn't too sore.

When Sam eventually exited the bathroom, holding a towel haphazardly around his waist, he looked a little surprised to see Dean and even took a step back, almost as if he was scared of something. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"I think we should stay another day". Sam took a breath, like he was preparing himself for an argument. Dean couldn't think of anything to say immediately, so he just continued to look at Sam expectantly. The kid looked nonplussed, but straightened a little and pulled up his towel.

"We don't have another job lined up yet and we get free high speed wi-fi here. The Central Library on Main has a good reference section. We can do research here as well as anywhere. Would that be OK with you?"

Dean thought that might be a good idea but he'd just found the donuts. He was too busy contemplating the selection to reply right away. Finally picking one, he turned towards Sam, and said "Sure thing" before pushing an entire glazed donut into his mouth. Now why, he wondered, did Sam look at him like he'd just swallowed a fly or something? He tried raising his other eyebrow, and changed his expression to mildly inquisitive.

"You mean – yes, you don't mind staying?"

"Yeah, that's what I said, didn't I? Show me your back so I can check the stitches. And did you leave any hot water?"

As soon as Dean assured himself that the stitches held and re-bandaged the worst of the cuts, and after sternly reminding Sam he wasn't to lift or carry anything heavy, he showered. As soon as he was dressed, Sam cleared his throat. Shit, he knew that noise all too well. Looking up, sure enough, Sam had _the_ look – he was back to on-going research for his documentary 'The Mystery of Dean."

"So tell me about hearing that phone?"

Sam was acting deceptively casual. Dean got an image of himself, lying on a couch, while Sam held a pen poised to take notes. "What about the phone, Mr. Alexander Graham Bell?"

"There wasn't a phone ringing this morning". Dean opened his mouth to refute this, but Sam plowed on, "I would have heard a ringing phone too and there was nothing."

"You didn't hear it? I can't believe it! It was the payphone outside. It was one of those old fashioned rings too – remember how old phones used to sound? It was more like one of those triangle thingies in those old westerns – you know, the thing they would ring to get cowboys to come in for dinner? And it rang for fucking ever."

Sam stared at Dean in disbelief.

"I was right here, bro, and I'm not deaf. Where's the pay phone again?"

"Well, it's not like its hiding or anything, Sam. Just open the door and look left. But when I answered, ah, there was no one on the line or anything." Dean scrubbed his hand through his hair. "I thought at first, but no one, um, nothing was there." He couldn't seem to get a sentence out of his mouth. "So I hung up and came back to the room. At least no one called the number again."

Dean couldn't stop blinking. He stood, walked to the window and opened the room curtains enough to see out. The sun was way too bright, but his vision seemed OK.

"I'm pretty sure this has more to do with the quality time you spent with the Tidy Bowl man last night then an actual phone ringing ..."

"Yeah, whatever". This conversation was now officially over even if Sam didn't know it yet. "Look, I saw a newsstand yesterday. Let's pick up an armload of newspapers and take them with us to lunch." He slipped a long sleeve denim shirt on over his tee, and started to load up. Wallet - check, car keys - check, cell phone - check, pistol in waist band, knife in his boot – check check, silver knives in wrist holsters – and damn if those weren't fine new kick ass Simon Templar cool weapons, dude – check, flask of holy water - check, flask of booze – _check,_ Sam – not moving.

"Something else, Professor?"

"Just wondering where you put it all Dean. You just ate half a dozen donuts and now its lunch time?"

"Dude, it's going to take an hour to get downtown to the papers and then back to that good diner on 15." He quickly checked his watch, "and there'll be a line. By the time we get a booth, I'll be starving." A quick smile – "And so will you. You've got to learn how to time things, Sam. I keep trying to tell you. Timing is everything."

Escorting Sam to the car, Dean tried again to remember that phone call. He'd heard something, hadn't he? Every time he tried to think about it, his brain scrambled away to something else. And his eyes felt weird. When he turned to say something about it to Sam, like maybe he should salt and burn the damn phone, it all slipped away again, leaving Dean edgy and frustrated. What _was_ he so worried about?


	3. Micro greens, goat cheese

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

Point Of View shifts between Dean and Sam are noted by OOOOOs. Since I apparently like to change POVs as fast as a rhesus monkey on crack, there may be a lot of these of O's. Like in this chapter. If this annoying, tell me and I'll stop.

And to my reviewers, thank you so much. I am astounded at your responses.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Inside the diner and finally in a booth, they ordered coffee as they slid in, and Sam gratefully dropped his armload of newspapers on the bench seat. Grabbing the Weekly World News off the top, he glanced at Dean and watched him eye the menu through his sunglasses.

"Are your eyes OK?"

It took Dean a minute to take off and put away his sunglasses. "They're fine. They must not have gotten as much sleep as the rest of me".

Sam thought his pupils might still be dilated – he'd have to re-check Dean for a concussion when they got to the car. Momentarily tuning out his detailed 'Mystery of Dean' research, he checked the specials, and decided to go for the California plate – which was pretty funny since there were no micro greens, goat cheese, pine nuts or radicchio in sight. But there were scoops of tuna, chicken, macaroni, and fruit salads. If he was lucky, they'd use the canned fruit salad with the bits of maraschino cherries which for reasons he never wants to think about too much, he just loved. It's one of the things Dean used to bring home cans of every time he went to the grocery store when they were flush with money growing up. Even with all the fresh fruit in the Stanford cafeteria, that salad was always the one thing he really missed.

The waitress arrived to take their order, automatically topping their cups, and set the pot on the edge of the table. She considered the pile of newspapers, and grimly waved farewell to the tips she might have gotten if these two jokers hadn't settled in for the long haul. She glanced at Sam with a frown and said, "So what'll you guys have?"

Dean was being uncharacteristically slow to order, so Sam went first and ordered the salad plate and ice tea. The waitress sighed and turned a little toward Dean. "Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?" She tapped the table with the coffee pot.

Dean looked up and beamed a totally unselfconscious smile in her direction. She felt her knees grow a little weak. The tall kid was good looking but this guy – these boys could read all the newspapers they wanted. She'd even print more for them.

"I was going to get a bacon cheeseburger but the Rueben looks almost better. Do you use tomato paste or thousand island dressing?"

How was she supposed to answer when she was having trouble standing upright, she wasn't sure, but before she even had to try, the younger guy spoke.

"This once, for a change, take care of yourself and get something good for you."

Holy Mother of God - Sam almost clapped a hand over his mouth. Yeah he was freaked out about Dean, and the article about the statue of Christ on Mars in the Weekly World had distracted him a little, but where did that come from? That was downright pissy and sarcastic and condescending and nothing he ever meant to say out loud. Dean was going to kill him and damn if Sam wouldn't defend him for justifiable homicide. Distance was needed but Dean was between him and the door – if he wanted to survive he'd have to fake towards the john, then hope his legs were long enough to get him around the two tables on the right and out the door while Dean corrected his trajectory by orbiting around the hostess stand. He was a dead man. He took a deep breath, girded his loins, and set both hands palms down on the table to push off.

Dean shrugged a little, and smiling again, said, "That's probably a good idea, Sam." To the waitress, whose name tag said Judy, "I'll have the grilled chicken salad", and then he crooked up one side of his mouth, "a glass of water, and an order of fries." Moving his attention back to Sam, he said "You know I'll only go so far toward the healthy side."

OOOOO

The waitress gathered herself up and headed back to put in the order. Sam however was apparently frozen in place – he still looked like he was just about to get up. "You goin' somewhere?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. Dean frowned at him. What the hell was up with Sam this morning? Kid looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Dude, um, you don't mind about the suggestion?"

Oh, fuck me. "What, I did what you said and you still aren't happy? How bitchy do you have to be in one morning, Sam?" Dean selected the first paper from the top of his stack, the Wichita Eagle, shook it open with a huff, and glared mightily before ducking behind the page.

By the time Judy delivered lunch, Dean had more than made up his ill humor by reading stupid crook stories aloud to an increasingly irate brother. He knew that most of Sam's annoyance was not at Dean's actual reading, but because Sam couldn't help laughing even though he was trying very hard not to. Waiting until Sam put a big spoonful of fruit salad in his mouth, he drawled, "You think that story was good, you do know Wichita is where that guy shot himself in the balls, don't you?"

God, it was so worth it. Sam turned almost bright red in an effort not to have little pear cubes come shooting out of his nose.

"Yeah, he was putting his gun into the waistband of his pants and blew off a testicle."

Sam waved a hand and grabbed for Dean's water.

"At least we would only shoot ourselves in the ass. Well in my case, I would, but you'd probably just blow a hole in your jeans, skinny little ass-less wonder that you are."

He wasn't going to have to do a Heimlich on Sam was he?

OOOOO

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and took a gulp of coffee. The diner had mostly emptied out while they plowed through the papers until he and Dean were pretty much the last two left. He glanced toward the counter to see if he could catch Judy's attention when he realized that he was being stared at. Actually, both of them were being stared at - outright ogled - by four waitresses, a bus boy, and what must be a cook. He felt himself starting to blush but before he could signal, thankfully another waitress poked Judy hard enough to drag her attention from Dean to him. He held up his coffee cup.

"I got nothing." He observed his newsprint blackened fingers. "No unexplained deaths, no haunted houses, no weird accidents. Unless you want to know about the phone company burying lines and how that will affect rush hour traffic, or the new school buses, or City Council meetings, Wichita is quiet. I might have something in Cali." He glanced at their audience and his watch. "We should probably think about leaving pretty soon – we've been here for over two hours".

Either they were going to have to leave a $20 tip or they were going to have to fight their way out the door. He wouldn't take bets at this point if it would be one or both.

Dean thanked Judy for the refill and turned his paper to show Sam an article. "I think I found something up our alley – I've got a man taking a header off a bridge into the Arkansas not too far from here. And it looks like this guy was just the latest to go. Couple of others took the plunge there over the last couple of years," he pointed further down the article "and see here, there was a murder on the bridge about 30 years ago. It might be nothing but it would be easy enough to take a look."

"I'm game." He shifted a little on the seat. "I have _got_ to move – my little skinny wonder ass is asleep." He signaled Judy for the check. "I'll settle the bill and hit the head. Meet you outside."

Dean nodded and headed out. Sam watched heads turn to stare. He was so never going to tell Dean about this. When he realized those same heads were now swiveling to observe him as he walked to the john, like spectators at a Winchester tennis match, he almost reconsidered.

OOOOO

Dean slammed his sunglasses back on as soon as he left the diner. He decided to check the oil before they took a drive to the bridge, so he popped the hood and stepped around to the trunk to get a rag. Coming back around the car, he heaved up the hood – good old all American heavy as hell steel on his baby – and tugged the dipstick out. The oil looked clean but it might need topping up. He wiped the stick and leaned into reinsert it, when a phone rang, unbelievably loudly, right in his ear. He started up so fast he hit his head against the edge of the hood. Fan-fucking-tastic. He pulled off his sunglasses to rub his eyes when he felt something tingling up his spine. The phone rang again and there was that music again, and after that, the only thing he could see was the payphone on the edge of the diner parking lot. He didn't even feel it when the dipstick, rag, and sunglasses fell out of his hands and onto the ground.

OOOOO

The first thing Sam saw when he stepped outside was the Impala – hood _and_ trunk open. What the hell? He took a couple of long strides toward the car, when he saw movement to his far right. He stopped so suddenly he almost fell over. Dean was walking toward a payphone. He suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He headed toward the phone and his brother just as Dean picked up the receiver.

This time when he stopped he did stumble a bit. As soon as the receiver got to his ear, Dean changed. Sam watched his stance go from relaxed and alert to something else. His back straightened, shoulders went back, feet aligned, but his head angled slightly down. Sam found it frighteningly familiar – that's just how Dean stood when he was getting a dressing down from Dad. Clearly paying attention but not looking into Dad's face – not challenging the alpha dog by looking him in the eye, oh no, not arguing, not defending, just taking it in, absorbing it. He never stood like that any other time, ever. And Sam knew it so well because it used to drive him batshit crazy – so crazy that when _he_ argued with Dad it was heads up, challenging everything he could - chin to chin and eye to eye.

And Dean was nodding and talking into the phone. Sam bounded forward, shouting "Dean – hey Dean" like he was an eight year old kid in a playground with bullies on his tail, and reached out to grip Dean's shoulder.


	4. Just peachy, Sam, so drop it

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine. 

OOOOOOOOOO

Dean's reaction to the touch on his shoulder was almost electric – his white-knuckled grip on the receiver released just before his entire body seemed to paroxysm, jerking him backwards into Sam. Sam steadied him with an arm around his shoulders, but kept moving forward so he could grab the receiver, sent swinging by the force of its drop. He pulled it to his ear, but heard nothing, not even a dial tone. 

"What the hell was that – the phone never rang! Who were you talking to?" 

Dean shook his arm free irritably and Sam watched his posture relax. Dean shaded his eyes with his hand while his attention was caught by the swinging phone. He rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Who were you talking to Dean?" Sam repeated, and scared, it came out harsher then he had wanted. "What were you doing?"

Dean's head came up, looking confused. "What?" He glanced around the parking lot and ended by looking intently over Sam's shoulder, eyes still darting. He whispered "Dad?" 

Sam had to consciously stop the reflex that almost twisted him around, just to be sure their dead father hadn't miraculously appeared behind him. Was Dean answering his question or looking for Dad? "No Dean, Dad's not here. It's me. Sam." Dean still wouldn't look at him. Sam blurted, "Look at me!" 

Dean rubbed his hands over his face and finally looked him right in the eye. "Hey, Sammy, what's up?" He swiveled until he was facing the car and took a step forward. "Gotta check the oil." Like nothing happened. 

As far as Sam could discover in the next few hours, Dean really thought nothing had. And of course, he was _fine_, "just peachy Sam, so drop it" fine, "move along, nothing to see here" fine, "let's quit wasting daylight and go check out the bridge god damn it 'cause nothing happened" fine. 

The bridge turned out to be not so local, it was closer to 100 miles mostly south, a little east, around where the Arkansas pooled up into Kaw Lake in Oklahoma. The best way looked to be 77 through Douglass, Winfield, and Arkansas City followed by a sharp left on 11 just north of Ponca City. 

There wasn't much scenery, or cars, and Dean was quiet, clearly not willing to talk about ringing pay phones. Sam had some time to think. 

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"You OK man?"

"I'm fine – why do you keep asking me?" 

Sam clicked his tongue and settled in to brood. Dean would reply to questions, albeit a little slowly. He'd ordered a salad at lunch and didn't throttle him. He filed those bits of information. He leaned against the door and angled around until he was mostly facing his brother. He brooded some more. Dean seemed at ease and relaxed, eyes front watching the road. _Bohemian Rhapsody_ came on the Wichita oldies station they were still picking up. In the Land of Dean this signaled the start of a five minute lip synching performance that included beating out the tempo frenetically on every available surface in the car. In the Land of Sam, it meant making sure his head wasn't one of those available surfaces. He liked the song, but not enough to get his head smacked.

But today, in the Land of Dean, the Freddie Mercury memorial performance never started. Dean had no visible reaction. Sam continued to brood. After the song ended, Sam still hadn't come up with a theory but he did have a suspicion that he knew, in a sinking feeling kind of way, what he needed to find out. He sat up a bit straighter, 

In a casual voice, he said, "Hey Dean, would you turn off the radio for me?" He counted to four before Dean replied, as expected, 

"No way."

First test – check. Sam pitched his voice lower and did his best to channel John Winchester. Dean told him he did it all the time, which he'd never admitted horrified him, but now was the time to find out.

"Turn the radio off now, Dean."

"You got it." Without taking his eyes from the road, Dean reached forward and turned off the radio. He didn't even glance at Sam. 

Sam fished out the box of cassettes under his seat. Holding them half way between them, Sam rumbled, "Throw these cassettes away right now." 

Dean rolled his window all the way down, then switched hands on the wheel to snag the box with his right hand. When Sam realized that Dean was about the pitch the box out of the window, giving him a terrifying view of his short life passing before his eyes, he grabbed Dean's arm and shouted, "No Dean, don't'! Keep the cassettes!"

Dean arm jerked away from the window so suddenly that some of the cassettes bounced out of the box and into Sam's lap. 

"Jeez, make up your mind." 

"Um, I want you to keep the cassettes", he said for good measure, stuffing the errant tapes back in the box and shoving all of it back under the seat. Sam pictured his Psych 101 textbook and considered his next step. Now that he knew what the symptoms were, what did a payphone have to do with it? Sam considered his options, and felt the best possible course was to resume brooding. Dean and Jess always said it was one of his fortes. He turned the radio back on in time for Metallica's _Master of Puppets_.

About an hour later, Sam noticed a sign for Ponca Lake Park rushing past them on the right. What the? Looking at Dean, he asked "Where are we?" No reaction. He tried again, this time pushing Dean's arm, "Dean, wake up! Did we miss the turn for 11?"

OOOOO

Dean gave himself a shake, and blinked a couple of times before he could cut his eyes over to Sam. He couldn't remember what had just happened. "Did you just hit me?"

"You didn't hear me. Do you know where we are? I think we overshot 11." 

Well that was just weird. He wasn't sure where they were. Sam was the one that got lost between the shower and the toilet. He never got lost. With all the back road driving they did, he'd had time to develop, test, install, and enhance his own personal in-skull GPS. The car's odometer confirmed it – he'd overshot the turn. They were only a few miles out of Ponca City and he didn't remember driving the last 63 miles at all. Crap.

He took a U at the next intersection and accelerated back to 11. They weren't too far out, and soon enough they were approaching a smallish bridge, two lanes if you squinted, and the cars were very small. He wasn't taking his girl onto that – so he pulled off the road as far as he could, and they both climbed out. Dean always tried to time his door so that it closed at exactly the same time as Sam's, not that Sam ever noticed, but Dean always got a small sense of triumph when the doors creaked and thudded closed in unison. Score! 

The bridge wasn't much, only about 70 to 100 feetlong, with the usual safety rails, and supports. At the bottom of the narrow drop was a trickle of water, but the sides were steep. No bungee jumping, but high enough and rough enough at the bottom that no one would want to go over the edge. 

Holding the EMF, Dean led Sam by a step or two onto the bridge. Just as they reached the middle, the EMF went off as all the ambient noise seemed to disappear. Dean caught Sam's eye and lifted one shoulder. 

"It's a definite. Let's head back and research this sucker before we come back tonight." 

Sam nodded, and turned with him towards the car. Before they could reach it, they both had to press to the side of the bridge to let an ancient Ford pickup pull by without flattening them. Dean anxiously watched the truck inch past the Impala. The driver leaned out his window and shouted back, "Why don't you moor that boat by the water?" 

Watching the truck leave, Dean said in disbelief: "Dude, that old guy just cackled – and called my car a boat. Who the hell cackles? I say we set him on fire right after we finish the bridge."

"Dean, why don't you let me drive the car back to Wichita?"

That seemed easy enough to agree to since he could have zoned out enough to drive them off the road earlier. He tossed the keys over, and took shotgun without protest. 

OOOOO

Sam started to pull his door closed, then stopped as he saw Dean commit to the swing. The doors closed seconds apart. And Dean thought he didn't know about the simultaneous door thing. You couldn't live in the same 10 square feet every day for over a year and hide something like that. Unless you were Sam, of course, and then you didn't let Dean know that you knew. He couldn't let Dean succeed every time because if he did, Dean would surely lose interest and look for what was sure to be a much more annoying past time. He kept an eye on Dean and considered brooding.

Dean looked at Sam when he sighed loudly. "Are you brooding again, Sammy boy?"

"Nope, gave it up for the ride back. Why don't you research the bridge's history this time? I'll drop you at the library and pick you up at closing. I've got something to check." 

Payback's a bitch. "Sure Sam, I'll do the research and I'll find that farmer guy while I'm at it. I got his plate." 

"You'll do it, then?"

"You have to get your hearing checked, bro? I'm not happy about it, since you're the guy who gets high on library dust, but what's fair is fair."

Sam dropped his voice again to say, "OK Dean, that's great but you have to promise me right now that you won't answer any payphones while you are at the library. Can you promise me that?" 

"I promise."

Sam pulled back onto 77 and gunned the car north. "OK, well don't forget to check the history of the architect."

"Who the hell do you think did the research while you were at Stanford, you freak?" Sam made a small apologetic shrug. "You thought me and dad went to a Geeks-R-Us store for a quickie term paper before jobs or something?" 

"Sorry, Dean."

"Man, don't brood so hard, you'll drive off the road." Dean settled back against the leather seat, pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, and fell asleep. 


	5. Uncouth tough guy in a leather jacket

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. Since I couldn't help fiddling with every chapter before posting, all remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine. 

Thanks so much for your reviews and alerts.It really IS just like cookies. 

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Sam Winchester wouldn't take advantage of the situation, he just wouldn't. He found himself in a weird, one of a kind, childhood temptation dream of a place – Dean would do absolutely anything he told him to. If Sam were 10, he'd be picking all the TV shows, or making Dean stop punching him, or getting one of the guns, or riding shotgun everyday next to Dad. If he were 14, he'd be driving the Impala and forcing Dean to stand up to Dad like he did. If he were 18, he'd be putting Dean in the car and driving them both to Stanford. 

At 24, it wasn't so easy. After Dad's death, and his last year together with Dean, the Stanford senior that saw only an uncouth tough guy in a leather jacket standing in his Palo Alto apartment was almost totally gone. That he'd looked at Dean but hadn't seen him, even for a minute, as his brother was not something he was proud of. And now, he knew, on a fundamental level, that he didn't need anything from Dean because Dean had always freely given him everything he had and really needed. 

He'd slept after dropping Dean at the library, but once up, had planned to research what exactly could explain Dean's behavior. Instead, he twirled his pen, tapped on his legal pad, and thought serious thoughts about something he could give Dean. If he were going to take advantage of the situation, which of course he wouldn't, but if he did…. He jotted a few things down but scratched them out roughly. While he would like to convince Dean to ease up on the one night stands, or separate whites from colors, or stop eating with his mouth open, that was starting to look more and more like judgmental Sam College Student than someone giving Dean a gift. 

Dean apparently attracted women by breathing, and Sam was getting accustomed to a universally pinkish gray wardrobe. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that most of the behaviors he wished Dean would change were part of what Dean used to deflect attention from himself. The attention he didn't want, not just because he was constantly mirroring any concern or attention he received back onto Sam, but because he needed 'unobtrusive' and 'unremarkable' to hunt. People remembered smart, dangerous, and he grudgingly admitted, really handsome people very differently than they remembered slightly stupid, harmless, really handsome people. 

And that was the thing, wasn't it? Dean was not stupid. Sam had always thought that Dean was a better hunter than Dad, although Sam would never tell him that. Where Dad was fueled by anger and revenge, Dean just wanted to save people - first Sam, then Dad, then everyone else. And unlike Dad, who ran hunts with dour Marine precision, planning out as much risk as possible to save himself and the boys for the ultimate goal of finding and killing the Winchester demon, Dean hunted by thinking on his feet, and with such a blithe disregard for his own skin he both frustrated and terrified Dad and Sam at the same time. The fact that Dean got a total rush doing it was just the a la mode on the hunting pie, the icing on the hunting cake. 

Since there wasn't anything Sam could give Dean to make him a better hunter, he'd have to find something else from the rest of Dean's life togive him. And the rest of his life, which Samknew all too well, was Sam-centric, with a dash of Impala. Sam finally shelved the topic and bent his attention instead on figuring out how to break Dean out of what could only be a hypnotic fugue state that he had no business being in. A few hours later when Dean came in with a 6 pack of beer and a couple of Slim Jims, Sam wondered if he should rethink his decision not to do something permanent about his eating habits. 

Dean removed a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them to Sam. "Just call me your trusty research sidekick, geek." He pulled off his top shirt, cracked a beer, and with a sigh of pleasure, ripped the plastic off what must have been a two foot long piece of compressed dried meat, oozing with fat. He tossed one to Sam. "Only pie gets better than this." 

Sam checked his watch while surreptitiously dropping the Slim Jim under the table. "I thought you were going to call me when you were ready to be picked up?"

OOOOO

"I got a ride. I never thought I'd find a sexy librarian but dude, Krystal's amazing." He leaned his head back, slowly chewing a huge bite of Slim Jim, "Beautiful dust jacket, nice tight spine, large fonts", he said, making cupping motions up by his chest, "creamy paper… she sure checked me out thoroughly." When Sam pantomimed a gag, Dean gave him a hurt look. "Hey, I may not always towel off with them like you do, but I know a little about books. I returned her on time, in good shape, and didn't write in the margins." That got the laugh from Sam he wanted. 

"Looks like we've got a serial killer. The guy killed at least five women, maybe as many as 8, and dumped them off the bridge or left them within a few miles. They tried our man, Lemuel Barnes, for the last three murders. He got the death penalty in 1980 and was executed in 1993. His victims were strangled. There's some coroner reports and photos toward the back."

Flipping through the papers, Sam asked "Why didn't they charge him for more than three murders?"

Dean shrugged – "Guess it worked out. Not sure they could do more than execute him. They may not have been sure about all the women." He pointed to a chart of rain fall, water levels in Kaw Lake and how that correlated to some of the victims. "They didn't make the connection to some of the bodies because they were dumped while the water under the bridge was high – the bodies ended up in the lake – which is really a reservoir. Two were found by dragging."

Dean ran his hand through his hair. "We should salt and burn Lem. I located the guy's grave, but …" he stopped for a couple of seconds, "there could be another spook or two out there. Not all the victims that went off bridge since the guy died were women and not all of them were strangled. Mostly dead from blunt trauma, I'm thinking by goin' headfirst off the bridge."

Sam glanced through the files, and said, "Are you saying we need to stock up on salt and lighter fluid? That could be a lot of corpses". He looked up from the files when he realized Dean hadn't spoken in a few minutes. He was intently staring at the table top. "What is it?"

"I just keep thinking there's something I'm missing…" he reached forward and snagged several pages. "I'm positive there's a connection right in front of me." Distracted, he minutely examined what was left of the Slim Jim before fitting all of it into his mouth. "Take a look at these – the area was originally Cherokee tribal lands, as well as the site of the biggest land grab in US history. To top it off, literally, they dammed the Arkansas, and flooded 17,000 acres to create the Kaw Lake reservoir. We're going to be wading hip deep through some serious spirit residue." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to take a shower and see if I can sleep. You figure the plan, Sam." He reached into his pocket and dug out a book and a package and tossed both on the table. "Just in case", he tapped the book, "Cherokee rituals – idigawesdi - if we want to cleanse the bridge" and then tapping the package, "tobacco and a couple of pipes." Before Dean left, he used his foot to snag the second Slim Jim from under the table, and to Sam's evident disgust, ate it in the shower.

After Dean's breathing evened out in sleep, Sam regarded him momentarily.They had learned to trust each others misgivings. Dean sometimes saw connections and patterns Sam missed, and he returned the favor as often as not. He carefully reviewed Dean's research, and after checking a few things out on line, he drew a blank on the connection Dean thought he saw between the victims, other than there could be a whole hell of a lot of them. Opening the book to the page Dean had marked, he began researching the ingredients of a Cherokee idigawesdi. Dean got up once but thankfully didn't head toward the door, just the john. As Sam wrote out the ritual – which he would need do on the edge of the stream bed at dawn, while Dean was handling the bridge - he finally thought of something he really could give Dean, at least for one hunt. 

He could give him one night without his self imposed mantle of big brother, one night where he would only have to look after himself, and do the job, and not get hurt protecting Sam. 

Sam woke Dean at midnight and between them they loaded the car but not before Dean checked his back one more time. "I'm not at all sure you should be digging tonight Sam."

"Not a problem. I'll keep point."

Sam kept a close eye on Dean for the first few minutes but he seemed alert. When Dean noticed the inspection, he turned his head a little and spocked up an eyebrow. "What now?"

"Let's talk about what we need to do at the bridge," and Sam outlined his plan. Dean wasn't comfortable with the idea of separating, but Sam did need to be by the water, and the bridge needed work at the same time. Sam turned to Dean and said very seriously, "This hunt, Dean, lets both follow the plan. You don't have to drop everything if the wind blows wrong, and you don't have to watch me constantly. I can take care of myself, and you need to take care of yourself." 

"Yeah right, Sam, like the best laid plans of Sam and Dean don't gang aft fucked up." 


	6. Farmers or cows or a sheep or something

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All the errors I put back in, and all original errors of course, are mine.

My thanks to my friend Scotia, who provided invaluable secondary editing advice – such as throw that whole part out, it's crap. Also, didn't hurt me for making library puns which is pretty astounding since she's a librarian.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

"If something goes wrong, we can regroup." Sam couldn't believe it but two hours later Dean was still arguing the plan. He felt like a douche-bag, but he finally dropped his voice, and said "Dean, I need you to follow the plan. Once we're at the bridge we need to separate. You'll get the sigils on the ground on both ends and then purify the bridge with tobacco while I'm repeating the idigawesdi. I have to say it at least four times – which should give you about fifteen minutes. I want you to take care of the bridge and take care of yourself. You don't have to worry about me tonight. Agreed?" Dean finally nodded and agreed solemnly.

The salt and burn turned out to be entirely uneventful. While Dean dug, he remembered to ask Sam if he'd seen anything noteworthy about the victims. He truthfully seemed worried. When they'd finished with the shake and bake, Dean cocked his head to one side and surveyed Sam. "Where was the spirit? They usually have something to say when we toast their bones."

Sam shrugged and Dean checked his watch. "Well, he's gone now. And I'm sure we'll find exactly what we don't want soon enough. It's the Winchester luck. We have enough time to get to the bridge and set up before dawn. We'll have to do this fast or we'll have farmers or cows or a sheep or something on the bridge before we get started."

This time Dean found a wider turn out beyond the bridge and was able to park the car safely off the road. Boat, be damned. He didn't want some random farm animal or some cackling farmer coming near her. He grudgingly allowed Sam to carry half the tobacco and a pipe since that couldn't possibly hurt his back, no matter how often he lifted them, while he carried the rest of their supplies and trailed Sam back to the bridge. Once there, Dean scouted out what looked to be a safe route down to the stream and would have gone down with Sam but Sam dragged him back. "I'll be fine Dean. Remember to follow the plan. Start the sigil on this side as soon as I give you the signal."

Shit. He hated splitting up almost as much as he hated camping. And Florida. And fucking healthy grilled chicken salads. But he packed tobacco in a pipe, got that and a lighter in his pocket, made sure he had the symbol to copy and chalk, and loaded his shotgun. Seeing the second sawed off in the duffle, he raced to the bridge railing. How could he have been so stupid? He leaned over the edge and bellowed. "Sam!"

"Keep it down! What's the matter?"

"Do you have a weapon?" He was trying not to shout and held his breath when he saw Sam stumble, only releasing it when he'd safely reached the edge of the stream in one piece.

Sam called back up, "It would kind of defeat the cleansing ritual. I've got plenty of salt."

Not satisfied, Dean started for the path Sam took. "I'll bring one down. You don't even have to touch it – I'll put it down next to you so it's there if you need it."

Sam's voice came back louder this time. "No, Dean, stop." His body stopped so quickly he had to grab a bridge support to keep him from falling right on his ass. What the hell? "Sammy?"

"We don't have time – it's just dawn. Go ahead and start the first sigil. Follow the plan. Don't worry about me – I can take care of myself."

God, he was almost shaking. "Sam, I have a bad feeling about this…"

"Dean, it's time. Start the first sigil now, then follow through on the plan. Just think about what you need to do or we won't be able to finish this simultaneously."

He couldn't move forward no matter how he tried, and instead found himself on his hands and knees clearing gravel and debris from the pavement in front of the bridge. Single-mindedly, he started to draw. Just as he was finishing, he heard Sam say "One!". Right on schedule. As he crossed the bridge, he didn't even look over to check on Sam. He was following the plan.

When he heard Sam yelling a few minutes later, loudly, it wasn't anything he was supposed to pay attention to since it wasn't part of the plan _(Sam was capable of taking care of himself)._ He kept his attention right where it was supposed to be _(Sam didn't need his help, he was fine)_, on drawing the sigil _(he wasn't supposed to worry about Sam)_, since he only had about one minute before Sam would say "Two" _(Sam didn't have a weapon)_, and that meant he'd have to be ready with the tobacco. Sonuvabitch - splitting up was such a bad idea. He was dripping in sweat and his hands were shaking so badly he had to redo a part of the symbol.

"Dean! Dean, damn it, look behind you! Shoot it! DEAN!"

OOOOO

Sam was looking at a beautiful sunrise in the direction of Kaw Lake, chanting steadily. He had a palm-full of tobacco in his left hand that he was kneading slightly, allowing a little to fall into the water as he manipulated the rest into a loose ball.

When the temperature plummeted, he risked a glance around him, but kept speaking. When he felt something brushing his back, he retrieved the pouch of salt from his pocket with his right hand. He opened the pouch just as he felt spectral hands touch him, and turned to see the flickering image of a woman. She moved like they all did, suddenly appearing _here_ before you realized they had left _there_. He swung the bag in an arc releasing salt, but not before she knocked his left hand sharply, tossing the ball of tobacco into the stream. He whistled air through his clenched teeth as the movement stretched the cut on his back.

He reloaded with tobacco, but before he resumed round 2 of Cherokee spirit talk, he called up to the bridge, "Hey Dean – got a female Casper. How are you doing?" Dean's lack of reply didn't worry him – Sam wasn't yelling and Dean was on the far side of the bridge. He hurried to finish the second intonation of the ritual before she reconstituted herself.

Just as he finished, and took a breath to call out 'Two', someone made it back. This time a female ghost hit him so hard he ended up on his knees almost on the other bank, breath knocked out of him. He got on his feet, sucking in air. He turned to keep her, them?, in sight as he angled his head a little upwards, and shouted, "Dean – need a shotgun round down here right about now!" Almost before he said 'here', the original ghost was back, with a whole hell of a lot of company. Appearing behind him, one of the spooks pushed ghost hands right into the cuts on his back. He let out an involuntary grunt of pain.

He snapped the pouch over his throbbing left shoulder, perversely thinking 'this is good luck!', and caught whoever it was right in the face. "Dean! I've got about a dozen of the suckers trying to introduce themselves!" He didn't move immediately, and after a minute, he realized he was waiting for something and it wasn't a ghost. The something he was waiting for was Dean. Instead of protecting himself, moving away, anything, he was waiting for Dean to yell from the bridge, to hop skip down the embankment, hand him a shotgun, and protect him in full out big brother mode. Then it really struck home.

Dean wasn't going to be charging to the rescue, he was following the god damned plan, Sam's brilliant idea, and a way to change the plan wasn't part of what he shoved down Dean's throat. So here they were, a passel of unknown native and non native American spirits popping up around him and Dean was fifty feet straight up and away from him, following the plan. At least now they were on the same side of the bridge. He arced salt again to gain a brief respite and started to climb the embankment, using stunted trees to help haul himself up as fast as his shoulder would allow. The Sam-o-meter of Worry hit Red Alert. Dean's continued silence couldn't be good, and his shout of "Hey Dean – you OK?" went unanswered even though this time he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

What the hell - he'd been was out of his friggin' mind if he'd thought manipulating his brother was doing something for Dean. This was still _all about him_. He was the one, just like Dad, that hated it when Dean changed directions and made new plans on the fly. Sam wanted plans, order, made beds … Dean throve on chaos, the family perpetual motion machine, always juggling possibilities. Sam found answers by research and introspection, not in the by the seat of the pants 'let's see what's in _this_ room', experimental manner that Dean used so effectively.

So who's stupid now - they worked well together _because_ of their differences, not in spite of them. And he'd stopped Dean from being Dean, from hunting, because he wanted Dean to be more like him. He was following orders, orders that Sam, just like Dad, forced on him. But unlike Dad, Dean wasn't following them out of respect, which Sam knew Dean had for him deep down, no, he was following orders because Sam figured he couldn't convince Dean without pretending to be the man he respected.

He reached the top of the bank, still yards away from Dean, and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he saw Dean just coming up from his hands and knees. He must have just finished the second sigil. Before Sam could relax, he watched in increasing alarm as Dean failed to react when the over exposed image of a female materialized right behind him.

"Dean! Dean, look behind you! Shoot it! DEAN!" Sam sprinted forward, still shouting, "Dean, God damn it, snap out of it!" And finally, he shouted, "TWO, Dean, TWO!"


	7. A teensy little ghost

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. Your encouragement and suggestions made all the difference. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Dean got up with a sigh of relief - he'd gotten the sigil done just as Sam said 'Two'. He looked up and then to his left, surprised to see Sam bounding toward him, pointing over his shoulder, and yelling, "Forget the plan, it's FUBAR, forget the plan. Wake up and shoot the casper!"

It felt like the weight of the world was off his shoulders. He registered the chill on his back as he ducked down and spun, bringing his shotgun up and firing in one fluid motion. He stared where the spirit used to be, then turned and said "Hey Sam, who's that?" Before Sam could answer, he snagged the second shotgun out of the duffle, yelled "Sam!" and threw the gun. His aim was spot on, but Sam's hand wasn't where it was supposed to be. It was moving backwards away from Dean at a good clip, right along with Sam. Fucking ghost had smacked his brother. He shot the ghost again right in the face. "You non-corporeal psycho - stay the hell away from him!"

Dean started forward, scooped up Sam's shotgun, and ran the few steps to Sam's side. He dropped on his knees. "You OK, little brother?" Sam nodded, while Dean quickly and ruthlessly checked his arms and legs for breaks. "You didn't hit your head?' When Sam shook his head, Dean stood and offered him a hand up. "Looks like you didn't hurt anything but your emaciated ass."

Once Sam was upright, Dean reloaded his gun. "Why aren't you down there blessing the dawn with smoke?" Sam hastily told him of his own run in with a spirited lady friend and the appearance of a lot more. "I'm thinking a re-group is in order, preferably in Wichita. Maybe we come back after a bit more research?" Then eyes boring into Sam, Dean spun him, and without warning, used his left hand to hike both of Sam's shirts up to his shoulders. "Your back is bleeding again."

Sam laughed a little breathlessly and got out, "Hey, I didn't lift anything."

Dean dropped the shirts, and turned Sam back toward him. "Bitch."

"Jer – holy. Behind you!" Dean was violently pulled backwards just as he saw Sam's shotgun rocket away from him, skittering toward the embankment that Sam had just climbed. Instead of throwing him, the spirit pulled Dean upright and abruptly released him. He chambered a round, spun on the ball of one foot and fired but the fugly had already flickered _here/there_ and the salt blew past harmlessly. Growling in frustration, he chambered again, when the spirit was _there/here_ behind him, spinning him in a harsh parody of what he had just done to Sam. His shotgun was knocked almost casually out of his hand and then he was up, feet kicking uselessly for the ground, suspended by a spectral hand clamped on his throat just under his jaw. He couldn't inhale, couldn't breathe, couldn't catch a god damned breath, and despite everything couldn't help wondering how a teensy little ghost could lift him off his feet, when everything kept snapping back to air, air, air and getting it into his starving lungs. His body reacted instinctively, lifting both hands up to the constriction around his neck to desperately try to tear the fingers away from his throat, arching his back, stretching his neck - anything so he could breathe!

He wrenched at the hand, straining to release his throat enough to allow air in past the pressure. He heard Sam yelling but there was fuck all he could do about it. His vision started to tunnel and his hearing narrowed down to the sound of his heartbeat. He didn't feel it when his hands and nerveless arms dropped, or when his legs started to spasm, and he sure didn't feel it when he was tossed like a rag doll and caught, head down, backs of his hands scraping along the pavement, left ankle now in a crushing hold. Even as he was slammed into the bridge railing, the only thing he felt was air pushing its way into his lungs. The second time he swung into the bridge, even breathing lost his interest as the world went white, then black.

OOOOO

Sam couldn't get a clear shot. The bitch was using Dean's body as a shield, turning as Sam circled her. When the spirit suddenly released Dean's throat, throwing him up high enough to catch his left foot, she had Dean back in front of her so fast he still couldn't get a shot. He jerked in sympathy when Dean was suddenly swung helplessly, like a watch on a chain, into the side of the bridge once, then twice, his body twisting with her hand's movement, going right shoulder first into the railing. Sam angled to his right, hoping to back her away towards the center of the bridge or at least get between Dean and the railing. The spirit gave Dean a shake, then another harder one. Dean's pistol and cell phone hit the ground, loose change pinging away in a dozen directions.

The third time the spirit swung Dean, Sam got the shot right in the chest. Dean was already in motion, the momentum sending him back toward the railing. Sam knew he couldn't stop the collision, but he raced ahead anyway. When he saw Dean's head and shoulders go over the railing, instead of into it, he almost stopped breathing. The next instant, Sam had slammed into the railing, wrapping one leg and foot securely around a cross piece to hold him, stretching so far forward he thought he might go over anyway, but he managed to catch one of Dean's ankles in his right hand. He pulled backwards, grabbing frantically with his left hand, finally snagging the hem of Dean's jeans just below his right hand, and tried to hold onto that leg and brace himself as he bent in half over the railing and finally stopped Dean's fall when his arms reached their full length. Sam held on for all he was worth, but couldn't stop the inevitable pendulum of Dean's body, cringing as he watched Dean slam into the bridge superstructure. If he wasn't out before, he had to be now.

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's leg a little tighter and gasping at the pain in his shoulder, started to lift. Sam was no lightweight and yeah, he was taller than Dean, but as he knew all too well, the only time Dean looked short was when he was standing next to him. And even though he'd topped Dad in height, he grew up with the elongated lean muscles of a swimmer. For years, he thought he'd never match the upper body strength Dean and his Dad shared, yet here he was, pulling his unconscious brother's dead weight straight up and over the bridge railing by one leg while his stitches pulled out. Crap. It would be almost funny if it didn't hurt so damn much.

When he was finally able to let go with one hand long enough to grab Dean's belt, he drew in both of Dean's legs, and lifted, wrapping them into the circle of his left arm. It felt less like he was tugging on a lead sock monkey, all outstretched limbs jerking with each pull, and a lot more like something he might actually be able to do. When he heaved Dean the final time and got his legs and hips onto his side of the railing, he made Dean's weight work for him, pulling his chest and shoulders over as his legs fell to the ground. He had only enough strength to cup Dean's head, and let the rest of his body fall where it may. Once he'd settled Dean, propped up against the railing, he sat down heavily next to him, knees up, aiming the shotgun, and scanning for the fugly.

Momentarily clear, Sam allowed his eyes to close briefly before he reached over and performed the same check on Dean that he had just received from his older brother. No limbs broken, and unbelievably it looked like neither the right or left hip, knee, or ankle were out of joint. His right shoulder was definitely out of its socket and that had to be fixed before he woke up. His neck was only now starting to come out in bruises, and his breathing was ragged. If his breathing got any worse, Sam was heading straight to the hospital. He may go there anyway – there was the matter of the goose egg bump on Dean's right temple, bleeding sluggishly down his face. The hair on the top of his head was already caked with it from his time hanging upside down. Sam lifted his eyelids one by one. No miracles this time. Dean was definitely concussed.

He didn't want to leave Dean while he crossed the bridge and brought up the car, even if he did get a fresh shot to disperse the bitch. So far no fugly and no nosy local, but also no promise that neither one wouldn't show up just as soon as he turned toward the Impala. Sam kept one shotgun out, leaning it stock up against the railing, and packed the other and Dean's pistol into the duffle, and tucked Dean's cell into his pocket. The loose change, tobacco, and pipe were going to stay right where he left them. Sam settled himself, got a good hold of Dean's left hand and pulled him in one motion over his shoulders into a fireman's carry. He pulled Dean's left arm over the right side of his chest and pushed his hand through his belt. With a small hop to balance the load, Sam tightened his belt over Dean's hand, held on to Dean's legs as tightly as he could and brought the shotgun up and under his right arm.

He heard the first vehicle when he'd trudged halfway across the bridge. Trying to look as nonchalant as anyone carrying a bleeding man on his shoulders possibly could, Sam made sure to force a smile as the ancient pickup from the day before came up on him, exquisitely slowly, from the rear. "Too much boating, boy?" And damn if the old man didn't cackle again. "You don't have the sense God gave you if you are out on this bridge at night."

Sam continued to smile, but that guy was really starting to piss him off.


	8. What happens in Oklahoma

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Once he deposited Dean in the back seat, Sam hoofed it back over the bridge, shotgun ready, and did a final scan before collecting the duffle. Hearing another vehicle, this time from the other direction, Sam brought the gun around to his back as the car approached, and then turned to hide it by bringing it in front of him as the car passed. He pulled his over shirt off, folded it as tightly as he could and pushed it down the back of his tee to help pad his back before draping a towel over the back of the driver's seat. In dire need of distance between themselves and that bridge, he drove toward 77 until he could swing the car behind an abandoned building and park with some degree of privacy. Sam slid into the back with Dean, bracing himself carefully while placing his left foot just to the inside and below Dean's right shoulder. He picked Dean's right arm up with both hands and leaned back, slowly pulling Dean's arm forward as he pushed backward with his foot. He saw, and disconcertingly heard, Dean's shoulder popping back into place. One more thing on the list of things he wished he didn't know how to do. He was surprised to get no reaction. He got his leg back down and leaning forward, rubbed his knuckles hard down Dean's sternum. That elicited a grunt.

He backed out of the car, and came around to the passenger side, catching Dean under the arms as he opened the rear door. He pulled him out as gently as he could, holding him over one arm, and pinched him on the pressure point where neck and shoulder met. Dean's eyes opened a slit then widened as he moved his head. Sam knew perfectly well what to expect, and had already angled him away from the car, the car door, and his shoes, and allowed concussion induced nausea to take its course. Once it was over, he lifted his unresponsive brother and settled him flat onto the front bench seat. After waiting to see if Dean's stomach would rebel again, he buttoned Dean's shirt around his right arm in a makeshift sling before closing the right hand doors. He pulled a ratty blanket with little golf balls printed on it, a moth eaten sweater and a bottle of water from the trunk as he passed it, and opened the driver's door. Lifting Dean's head, he slid in behind the wheel. Once he put the folded sweater onto his right thigh, he lowered Dean's head onto the makeshift pillow. He tossed the blanket over him, and leaned back as much as he could to put pressure on his cuts as he pulled back onto the road, braking and accelerating with his left foot.

Once on 77, Sam took three ibuprofen before waking Dean. "I need you to open your eyes. Don't move your head, you have a concussion. Just open your eyes for me." Dean's right hand jittered and his brows twitched in a frown. "We're in the car on the way to Wichita. Just open your eyes, Dean, don't move your head". He tapped Dean's cheek. "Open your eyes Dean or I'll have to take you to the hospital. We agreed that unresponsive after a head injury was an automatic ticket to the ER."

Dean's eyes cracked open a slit. He licked his lips and rasped out, "Never 'greed to no stinkin' hospital."

"Congratulations, you've won a 'Get out of the ER free' card. If you hadn't, you wouldn't even know I was taking you." Dean seemed to be registering at most one word out of three. "You know the routine. Name, date, favorite director."

Dean took a shallow breath. "Dean Win'ster. April … um, Friday? An' Tobe Hoop'r'".

"Not really at the top of your game, huh?"

"Yeah, I suck but at leas' I'm good lookin'." He swallowed painfully. "Can I try 'gain in a couple hours?" His eyes slid shut, he pulled in one deep breath, and passed out again.

Sam had an introspective drive back to Wichita, looking down sharply every time Dean twitched. When they pulled into the motel parking lot, he roused Dean and said, "Name, home town, and gun."

Dean smirked. "Tha's better. Dean Win..ches..terrr", pretending to roll the r, "Lawrence, Kay Ess. Colt M1911 Semiautomatic." He yawned, and then winced as the movement pulled on the cut on his temple.

"OK Dean, time to go to bed."

"I'm fine ri' here. Car's m'baby." He blinked, and looked at Sam. He drew his brows together. "Whacha doin' straight up?" He shifted slightly and groaned when he realized his head was in Sam's lap. "Ah hell, itza CFM."

"What happens in Oklahoma stays in Oklahoma, Dean."

Suddenly his left arm waved out, as he tried to grab the steering wheel and pull himself up. "Don' wanna be sick in my girl." Sam kept Dean's head as still as he could as he got out and slid him out of the car. He was mostly vertical as Sam helped lean him over to vomit and then dry heave onto the tire of the next car over. When he was done, Sam asked, "Can you walk to the room?"

"Would I have t'move?"

"Yeah, but I'll help." Sam supported Dean into their room and onto his bed. He managed to get off most of his clothes and strapped his right arm and shoulder pretty tightly before he let gravity take its course and pull Dean unresisting into the pillows. He set the trashcan at the head of Dean's bed, then went back out to grab their duffles and the first aid kit from the car.

Peeling off his shirts, he craned his neck around to check his back in the bathroom mirror. Despite carrying a whole lot of brother, only a few stitches had popped and it had stopped bleeding during the ride back. There wasn't much more he could do until Dean was upright and could focus long enough to inspect the stitches, so he cleaned it as best he could and positioned a fresh bandage on the worst cut. He had to lean against the wall, rolling a bit, to push it on snugly. He brought a towel and a bowl of water to Dean's bed and cleaned Dean's face and hair, knowing from experience how uncomfortable dried and caked blood would be in a few hours. He gently placed some gauze on the cut on Dean's temple before cleaning the scrapes on the back of his hands.

Afraid he'd fall asleep and face plant on Dean's bed, he got to his own bed, stripped down to his boxers and put Dean's Pink Floyd shirt back on. Grinning, he tugged down, really, really hard. He set his phone to wake him in two hours and promptly passed out. When he woke Dean for the third round of questions, "Date, your favorite color, my birthday", he made a passable attempt to glare at Sam while he rattled off the answers. "If I promise to get you somethin' for your birthday, will you jus' let me sleep?" Dean inadvertently moved his head, and closing his eyes tightly, winced and groaned dramatically but didn't reach for the trashcan when Sam held it at eyelevel. Satisfied, Sam retrieved two Vicodin from the first aid kit, crushing then mixing them into a few ounces of water that he helped Dean drink.

Between the painkillers and the concussion, Dean should sleep for hours. He treated himself to two more ibuprofen and gratefully climbed back into his bed. When he was jerked awake two hours later by that adrenaline rush sound of squealing brakes and frantic honking, Sam knew instantly he was alone in the room.

OOOOO

Dean woke not totally convinced he knew where he was. At least he was in bed, or was in bed before he answered the phone, and that was what? Yesterday morning? Maybe he answered twice. He was afraid it might be ringing again but that music was suddenly back even though he was pretty sure he wasn't on the phone. And the music got louder and louder and it started to drown out _everything_, leaving no room in his head at all, so loud it thrummed up and down his spine, in his belly and balls, tensing his body until his toes curled. When he could think again, all that he could put together was 'this just sucks'.

And sure enough, the damn phone really was ringing. He rolled himself upright and almost keeled over but he made it to his clothes, only stumbling a bit. He leaned against the wall and got a pair of jeans over his boxers and zipped and buttoned them one handed. He got his left arm through the arm of his denim shirt and over his right shoulder but he just couldn't think anymore with that fucking phone ringing, so he did the only thing left, and walked out the door.

He wasn't sure why but his right arm wasn't moving and he could seriously use it right about now. The sun was killing his eyes and he couldn't shade them and hold himself up with one hand. He closed his eyes, but that only made the ground tilt-a-whirl around and tip him a few steps to the right before he could stop himself. He looked down and tried to watch where his feet might be going, and lurched back until his left hand was touching the wall of the motel before walking toward the phone. When he finally reached it, he jerked the receiver up to his ear and hunched his shoulder to hold it in place. He moved his left hand up to grip the metal cowling to keep himself in place.

He gingerly swallowed, and whispered, "Here, sir" before he realized that there was nothing and no one on the line - no dial tone, no static. Puzzled, he brought the receiver in front of his face and inspected it suspiciously before dropping it. He brought his ear right up against the phone itself just to be positive it wasn't sneaking in a ring but with the music so loud it was hard to tell.

Turning back the way he came, he leaned heavily against the phone and closed his eyes. This time the world stayed steady, but he started to tilt backwards. When he re-opened his eyes, the world had flattened, colors graying out, the people moving out by the street were freeze framing, jerking forward, and the edges of his vision were going black/white/black. He started back to the room, 'cause Sam had to know about this, but before he got more than a few feet, a phone somewhere in front of him started ringing again, the sound knifing painfully through his head, forcing a moan past his clenched teeth.

Without a building to brace against, Dean negotiated the walk, weaving badly. He ran a loving hand across the Impala's hood after he'd walked hard into its front bumper. He continued past the motel office and right to the curb, searching for the damned phone. He found it next to the gas station across the street. The incessant music was distracting him, teasing him, pushing through him, arching his back and crackling through his hair and all he could think about was answering the phone. He watched disinterestedly as the music seemed to tug at his right leg, pulling it forward until he couldn't help but lean to follow it, then tugging his left leg forward. He decided the music could do anything it wanted as long as it was getting him closer to the phone so he could answer it and make the pain in his head go away. He didn't hear the car horns or brakes as he walked across the street.


	9. Mr Giant Goldilocks to you

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Sam pulled on his jeans, hopped to the dresser, and pushed his feet into his sneakers as he pulled a long sleeve shirt over Dean's tee. Dean's cell was right where Sam had left it, charging next to his, but then so was Dean's wallet, car keys, weapons, and everything else from his morning checklist, including Sam, left behind in the room. He took two long strides to make sure that Dean wasn't lurking in the bathroom with the light out, then bolted for the door, jamming a room key, car keys and a cell phone into his pockets, while slipping his gun into his jeans. He checked left and there was the phone, receiver dangling, but no Dean. The commotion was to his right and he knew it had to be Dean somehow, but even as he started forward, he checked the roofline. He sprinted flat out toward the street, eyes scanning for his brother, and then bingo, found him, across the street, walking unsteadily toward a pay phone.

Sam threaded around a few stalled cars, relieved at not seeing any crumpled fenders, but not relieved upon seeing a couple of guys, probably pissed off drivers, striding toward his brother. Sam jumped forward, long legs flying, until he could position himself between Dean and everyone coming at him. He pulled Dean's good shoulder away from the phone and knocked the receiver out of his hand, saying softly, "What the hell, Dean?" Sam got Dean facing him just in time to see his eyes roll back as he started to slide bonelessly toward the pavement. Sam caught and lowered him, going down on one knee, resting Dean's back against the angle of the other. His head fell forward, chin on his chest.

One of the drivers stepped up, anger turning to concern, "Is he alright?" And another "Do you need an ambulance?"

He replied sharply, "No, no, he'll be fine, we don't need an ambulance." They had started to draw a crowd, and he knew how uncomfortable Dean would be if he were to wake just then. "He just got out of the hospital - he was in a traffic accident," motioning to the gauze and the wrapped shoulder. "The painkillers must have made him sleepwalk."

"Well, he's lucky no one hit him. He walked right in front of me."

Sam glanced at the on-lookers, then pointed across to the motel. "Look, we're staying just across the street." He took a breath – damn this was hard – but trying to carry his brother across a busy street at 11 AM was just too conspicuous. "I'm sorry to ask but would one of you be willing to help me get him back? I don't think he's going to wake up right away."

Dean had no reaction to the brief ride in a car, nor did he notice when their Good Samaritan helped Sam carry him into their room. Sam walked the guy outside, thanked him, then waved and smiled winningly at the motel manager before retrieving supplies from the trunk. He drew a glyph in rosemary oil on the door and window frame, then stepped into the room to salt those thresholds inside. He pulled his bed away from the wall, laid a thick salt ring around it, then levered Dean up long enough to manoeuvre his shirt and jeans off before laying him down on the protected bed. Dean was flushed and looked feverish. Sam took his temperature and Dean startled a little at the beep, cracking his eyes open enough for Sam to see pupils like pinpoints, his eyes glassy.

"Hey Dean – you scared me to death just now. How are you feeling?" Dean blinked slowly, then motioned at his throat and shook his head minutely. "You want some water?" That got a small nod. "Can you swallow some Tylenol?" A minimalist shrug. Sam gave him two and held the glass while he took a few sips.

After his eyes closed, Sam got up, and keeping a wary eye on his brother, he locked and bolted the door, pulled the room's table in front of it and stacked both chairs, their duffles and the room's coffee maker precariously on top. For good measure, he added a handful of coat hangers he'd found in the closet. Let's see Dean get out of the room without waking him _now_. Walking back to Dean's bed, he set his hand on brother's forehead and said, as persuasively as he could, "Please stay put", before crawling into the bed by the door, snaking a hand under the pillow to hold Dean's knife, and went to sleep like he'd been pole axed.

OOOOO

Dean blinked hard to clear his vision, and found himself standing right over Sam's bed, humming _Beast of Burden_. Sam was lying at a really weird angle. He didn't remember the bed having that kind of tilt before. He tried to shake his head to clear it when pain spiked through it, temple to temple, lancing from his eyes to the back of his head. He thought – 'oh, concussion" - before he held his head in his left hand and swayed a bit. He heard a groan, and opened his eyes to check on Sam, before he realized that the noise came from him.

Sam woke and sat up, Dean's knife in his hand, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "How are you?"

"Peachy." Dean lifted his head slowly and something inexplicable caught his attention. "Is that the coffee maker?" Sam looked a little sheepish but agreed that yes that was the coffee maker.

"What's it doing on the chair? For that matter, what's everything doing there?" Rubbing his face, he said, "It looks like someone tipped the room on end." He checked the room to see what else might be about to tumble toward the door next, when he realized that Sam was in what was rightfully his bed. "Even you fell toward the door." He sat down tiredly on the bed near Sam's feet then lifting his voice slightly, he asked in amusement, "And what are doing in my bed, Giant Sam Riding Hood?"

He heard Sam mutter, "That's Goldilocks – Mr. Giant Goldilocks to you", but lost track when he noticed the salt ring around the opposite bed. "You've been busy." He checked his feet and brushed off a few grains. He stood slowly, walked a little unsteadily toward the door, and started to disentangle the coffee maker one handed.

"What do you remember from the bridge?"

"Little ghost woman strangling me. It's weird you know, your giraffe neck usually draws the strangling ones like moths to the flame," he took a breath when a wave of pain from his shoulder rolled over him, "but I always, _always_, get the ones that like to throw people." He almost had the cord free, but had to stop to catch the carafe he'd jostled off the pile. Humming _Paint it Black_, he turned to carry the carafe to the table, which, after a brief moment he remembered was still right in front of him. "Sam, are we going to live like this or do you think we'll eventually be able to see the door again?"

He took a few steps but then really needed to sit down. Sam was up instantly, guiding him back to his new bed. Sam retrieved the carafe and filled it and Dean's glass at the sink. He tapped out two more Vicodin and two more Tylenol and wordlessly handed them to Dean with the glass of water.

Looking suspiciously at the Vicodin, Dean said "Dude, two of these will put me to sleep. I'll just take some ibuprofen." He rubbed his throat – his voice was starting to go in and out.

"No Dean, you are taking them. Trust me, if I really wanted you asleep, I'd give you three, maybe four. Then hit you over the head. The Tylenol are for your fever." Dean had to admit that most of his body was throbbing. He was expecting the shoulder to hurt, but had no idea why his hips and legs were so sore. And Sam was pissed at him, so with a small grumble of discontent, he swallowed the pills with a grimace as his throat reminded him of its bruising.

Once he put Dean's glass on the table between the beds, Sam went to disassemble the tower by the door but before he did, he observed the construction closely, turned and said, "Does this remind you a little of Close Encounters?"

"Only if you have Richard Dreyfuss tucked under that table." He watched Sam moving furniture and frowned, levering himself back up carefully and rasped out, "Damn it, Sam, you aren't supposed to be lifting things. Let me check your back."

"You have no idea, big brother." He didn't stop until the door was clear, only then walking over and easily pushing Dean back to a sitting position on the bed. Dean allowed it because that was probably a good place to check on Sam's back, not because he was going to fall over or anything. Sam set up the coffee maker and flipped it on. Snagging the first aid kit from the dresser, he walked to the bed and sat down next to Dean. "First I'm checking your head."

Batting Sam's hand away, Dean said again, "Nope, back first." Sam smiled and turned his back to Dean, pulling off his T-shirt. Dean couldn't help a little bit of a whine. "What the hell are you doing to my Pink Floyd, man? It's getting hard to read." He squinted and figured that it might actually be his eyes, rather than the shirt. He removed the bandage. "It's not too bad. Not infected, just a little irritated where you stretched out some of these stitches. What the hell did you do?" He had Sam open an alcohol wipe then cleaned the cuts, tugging out a couple of loose stitches, before asking Sam to open the antiseptic cream to put over them. Only one cut still needed a bandage which of course, Sam also had to unwrap for him, but Dean could at least press it gently on with his left hand. He said again, "What did you do?" He felt the first flush of Vicodin and put a hand down to keep himself upright.

OOOOO

Sam turned and saw Dean start to sway. Getting up, he piled pillows at the head of Dean's bed and helped him lay back. Dean's muscles were relaxing but he was still awake, watching as Sam poured coffee. He handed Dean a small cup, then cleaned the cut on Dean's head. "Do you remember much after the little ghost had your throat?" Dean gave a small shake of his head. "What do you remember about putting down the sigils?"

"I got those done, right?" Dean looked up trying to remember. "Then you were there and so was the ghost." He smirked. "I got strangled and you got thrown. Who knew?"

"You also almost went off the bridge." Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's how I stretched the stitches out, um, catching you." When Dean started to look alarmed, Sam quickly said, "Man, I'm fine. It's nothing a little ibuprofen won't fix." So saying, he took two with a sip of coffee. You remember that farmer guy? We are so hunting him down. There's just something wrong with a guy that laughs like that." Sam took a deep breath. "Do you remember anything about answering a phone this morning?"

Dean closed his eyes and for a minute Sam thought he had gone to sleep, until he saw him purse his lips. When Dean opened them again, he looked rather blankly at Sam and whispering said, "I went outside, I think." Sam nodded and gestured for him to continue. "Uh, yeah, a phone was ringing really loudly. And it wasn't the phone right out there either," he waved a hand vaguely in the door's direction. "It was somewhere…" His voice trailed off and he rubbed his eyes again. "Is that why you barricaded the door?"

Sam nodded again. "What else do you remember?"

"I forgot my shoes, and ... the phone wouldn't stop ringing. I think I answered it – did I answer it?"

"Yeah, you got it." Sam leant down a little to check Dean's eyes. His pupils were equal and his lids were drooping. "Do you want some more coffee?" Dean's head came up a little and he opened his eyes wider as he held out his cup. Sam took it and walked to the coffee pot, pouring half a cup. "Who was on the phone, Dean? Who was calling?"

"The music was really loud."

"Music?" He handed the cup to Dean, but he didn't let go until he made sure Dean had a grip on it.

"Yeah," Dean took a too large sip and winced when the hot coffee irritated his throat. "Really loud music all in here," pointing toward his head. "Cou, um, couldn't hear 'nything else", he slurred. Dean's eyes were blinking heavily and he yawned so hard his jaw popped. "Tol' you I'd go t'sleep."

"You were right. You will in just a minute. Who was on the phone, Dean?" When Dean didn't react, Sam said again, a little louder, "Tell me who was on the phone."

Dean's hand slipped on the coffee cup and Sam caught it before it spilled. He touched Dean's shoulder, "Come on Dean, who were you talking to?"

Dean's head rolled toward him. Almost inaudibly he whispered, "Dad" and he was out.


	10. Nighttime fun capital of Wichita

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too.

A/N: My profound thanks to my lovely and talented beta, Merisha, for encouragement and advice. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

A/N 2: We are officially 2/3s of the way now. And I promise, and Merisha can confirm, all fifteen chapters were totally written before I posted the first one. Which means I beat Kripke to a story about phone calls. Yay!

**OOOOOOOOOO**

When Dean woke a few hours later, Sam was standing over him. He was feeling a little adrift, still cocooned in a painkiller fog. He blinked a couple of times and said, "How long was I 'sleep?"

"Five hours". Sam held out his hand with more pills just as Dean tried to lift his left hand to gently probe his right shoulder. "You still have a fever".

Dean took the Tylenol and they both saw his hand shaking. He shook his head at the Vicodin. "I'm still feeling the last dose too much. How about unwrapping my shoulder so I can take a shower?"

Sam said "I don't think that's the Vicodin's fault, Dean", but helped him out of bed and removed the strapping. He stood until he was sure his legs would hold up then carefully, keeping his right arm next to his body, walked to the bathroom with Sam hovering. Once inside he closed the door behind him and took a good look at himself in the mirror. He could feel tremors running up and down his arms and legs, and saw a tic jerking over his left eye. What the hell was the matter with him – he felt anxious and tense, and for the life of him he couldn't place what was bothering him. Sam was fine, and if his life long care package was fine, what could he be worried about? He opened the door, just to double check, and there was Sam still fine, looking at him.

"Um, thought I'd get some clothes."

"I'll bring something in."

He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand it, and let it beat against him, trying to ease the tension out of his sore muscles. He moved his shoulder experimentally, the small spike of pain burning off some of the painkiller haze. He got out when the water started to run cold and found some clothes laid out on top of the toilet. He heard Sam, a little muffled through the door, say, "Let me know when you need to get the shirt on." He managed to shave, but only got half way through brushing his teeth, when he stopped to brush his hair, giving the bump on his head an experimental poke. It wasn't until he was tugging his jeans up one handed that he caught sight of the toothbrush still in his mouth. And his hands were shaking again.

When he got out, Sam helped him get on a black t-shirt and a top shirt. Over Dean's perfunctory protests, Sam re-strapped his arm back to his chest but this time into more of a sling arrangement. Sam also had to help him with his socks and boots, then solemnly handed him his wallet and cell phone (check-check). He froze for a second when he thought he heard something at the door. Sam cleared his throat, and Dean looked back to be handed his pistol, boot knife (check-check), and two flasks (check-check). He felt his left hand start to tremble and irritably shook it out, just as his stomach clenched up. He looked at the dresser then held out his now mostly steady left hand, "Do you have my phone?" Sam looked at him funny. "What?"

"Dean, I already gave it to you." Huffing in annoyance, Dean reached in his pocket, and to his surprise pulled out his cell. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. I thought I heard something at the door or something, I just got distracted and forgot." He checked his pockets again. "Car keys?"

"Bro, you are so not driving today." When Dean took a breath to argue, Sam said "No, no, and no. Not going to listen. Nothing you say will get you behind the wheel today." Sam very deliberately pointed at his own chest, said "Check", and led Dean outside.

Dean meant to ask Sam where they were going when a gut feeling suddenly had him on Red Alert – something was wrong, he didn't know what it was, something he was forgetting, something he had to do, and he couldn't remember. He felt himself start to sweat again, and deliberately worked on slowing his breathing. What was the Stones song again – oh, yeah, he started tapping out the rhythm on his left thigh, and recited the lyrics.

OOOOO

Sam was driving them toward the Home Depot on Broadway, the nighttime fun capital of Wichita, for a daytime reconnoiter. He checked on Dean a couple of times, and each time Dean was staring out the windshield, tapping a monotonous tattoo on his left thigh, his lips moving constantly. Sam turned off the radio and could just barely hear Dean saying, "… I see people turn their heads and quickly look away, like a new born baby it just happens every day, I look inside myself and see my heart is black…" It took him a few minutes to place it but finally remembered it was something by the Rolling Stones, or maybe the Beatles, at least one of those classic bands Dean liked that weren't mullet.

He leaned over, tapping Dean gently on his arm and said "Hey Dean, is that the Stones? Do you want me to change the station…" but that was as far as he got before Dean almost levitated straight up off the seat and jerked away from Sam's hand so violently that he impacted his right shoulder hard into the car window and door. He gasped in pain, clutching his shoulder as he swung his head sharply to the left, and practically yelled at Sam, "What the hell?"

Sam winced in sympathy as Dean clearly couldn't tell if he should hold his shoulder or his head. "Did you have to shout, Sam?" Dean leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. "I was just minding my own business and you freaking hit me!"

"Dean, I tapped your arm and said your name."

"Just give me a warning next time".

"Are you OK?" Sam could see pain lines forming around Dean's mouth and eyes and could clearly see Dean struggling with an answer. He was practically vibrating with tension. He changed tactics and instead asked, "How much pain are you in?"

Dean cracked an eye and looked around gingerly. "When did we stop?"

"Right when you tried to jump out of the car. Dean, how much pain are you really in?"

Dean resignedly said, "Nothing I can't handle".

Sam handed him a single Vicodin. "I know you can handle it Dean, but other than a ride and dinner, we don't have anything to do today. One won't knock you out, it'll just take the edge off." When Dean took the pill, after Sam scrounged a bottle of water from the back seat, he had to turn so Dean wouldn't see him how worried he was. He didn't want to keep doping him, but tension was rolling off him in waves. Dean began tapping his leg again to another song, and this time Sam knew it was the Stones because every time they drove past a Ruby Tuesday restaurant, Dean would loudly claim that they had ripped off the name from the song title. Sam figured that was just Dean on a rant until he checked and it seemed pretty clear that Dean was right. He'd even stopped reminding Dean that he'd heard it all before since he seemed so happy complaining about stoned boomers making business decisions while chewing peyote.

Sam left the radio off, and watched as Dean gradually relaxed with his eyes closed, but continued to talk and talk, reciting lyric after lyric, working his way through _Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday_, _Satisfaction_, _Let it Bleed_, and _Sympathy for the Devil_, while Sam scouted out the Home Depot's parking lot and found exactly what he was expecting to see. When he stopped at a small restaurant on the route back to the motel, he called Dean's name softly until he moved a bit, and stopped reciting. "Yeah, Sam?"

"Let's go in and get dinner."

"Dude, I really don't want to move. Come on, let me stay here. Get me a cheeseburger and some pie."

"You'll be here when I get back, right? No strolls around the neighborhood?" Sam glanced around, "because this is not the place for a slightly loopy guy to be walking around alone".

"I'm not planning on going anywhere".

Sam hesitated, but finally stepped out, locked all the doors, and entered the restaurant to place their order to go. He got two pieces of pie when he spotted the lemon meringue. He paced by the windows, eyes locking on the car every few seconds, until a waitress finally convinced him that the food wouldn't cook any faster if he paced, and urged him to take a seat at the counter as he was beginning to unnerve their other customers. Sighing, he took a seat that allowed him an unobstructed view of the car, and accepted a cup of coffee. He checked on Dean every few seconds, until a burst of noise and the sound of breaking dishes pulled his attention away from the window to a group of teenagers sitting toward the back of the restaurant. Sam watched as a couple of guys came out of the back to address the situation. He relaxed slightly, but kept a wary eye out as the group was being escorted to the sidewalk. He thought to check on Dean again, and with a rising sense of alarm, saw the open passenger door. He threw some bills on the counter, apologized, and ran to the car, slamming the door closed in frustration.

No Dean in the car, no Dean in the immediate vicinity, and after calling, no Dean answering his cell phone. It could only have been three or four minutes tops between Dean in the car and Dean not in the car. Not quite a Titanic and the Iceberg level disaster, but this definitely was building to the train racing toward the washed out bridge level snafu. Pushing images from that morning out of his head, he circled the diner quickly, knowing Dean hadn't had time to get very far.

He ranged out to circle the block, calling Dean's cell phone every few minutes. It wasn't the cell phone that found Dean, instead after about five minutes, it was the noise of cat calls and yelling down a side street that led Sam to him. Sam approached carefully, just as he and Dean had been taught (_people are crazy_) and saw Dean standing, illuminated from above by a street light, right by another god forsaken pay phone. He was turned into the phone, the receiver at his ear. That wasn't good, but what was worse was that Sam was seeing Dean over the heads of the same group of half a dozen punks who'd just been escorted from the diner.

They had arranged themselves in a rough circle around Dean, taking turns stepping in, tugging at Dean's shirt, pulling at the sling. One of them tried to get a hand into Dean's back pocket for his wallet, and Sam caught his breath remembering he had insanely given a gun to Dean before they left. What was way worse was that Dean wasn't reacting to the guys at all. When one of them stepped forward with a knife, Sam raced forward, research complete.

Jess told him one time that he looked scary when he got angry. It had had a profound effect on him and he'd tried hard ever since to watch his expression. He knew his height was intimidating and he rarely wanted to scare people. All of that introspection and care, at that very moment, was just in the way. He wasn't angry - he was enraged - and he damn well wanted to look terrifying. He broke explosively through the circle, tossing two of jokers flying and turned to a stand with his back to Dean. He straightened to his full height and looked down, almost dispassionately, at a man a full six inches shorter than himself. He slowly reached behind him, holding the other's gaze with cold, hard eyes. He brought his Taurus up and clicked off the safety. It sounded loud in the sudden silence.

He was amazed at how icy calm he felt. He said, smooth, low, and infinitely dangerous: "I'm going to suggest … once … that you get the hell out of here."


	11. Flanges are hot, Sam

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to my lovely and talented beta, Merisha, for encouragement and advice. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Sam relaxed only when the sound of the last set of running footsteps faded. He'd faced down a gang, single handedly, well single gun in handedly maybe. He'd have to tell Dean, but shit, Dean was still on the phone. He backed up, forcing Dean away from the phone without taking his eyes off the area around them. He wasn't stupid enough to think he was the only one with a gun.

Dean didn't collapse this time, instead, he shook his head and blinked a few times. He seemed somewhat alert and as delighted to see Sam as if they'd just met unexpectedly at a street corner. He said, a propos of nothing, "Did you know the Impala uses a 37.5 effective length V belt?" Dean's grin was wide and infectious.

"Why, no Dean, I didn't. Why did you think of that?" He took Dean's left bicep in his hand and began walking them back unhurriedly to the restaurant and the car.

"I was trying to remember. You wouldn't believe the length differences alone just for the '67s. Then take the clutch flywheel – there must be five makes that fit a '67. It was a good thing I had Bobby's junkyard to go through. And Bobby of course, good thing I had him to go through too. Um, that didn't come out right." He drew his brows together momentarily before saying happily, "I meant he had to order a lot of the parts." Sam continued moving them forward, vigilantly scanning for movement. Dean blinked slowly and stumbled. "What'cho do with the Impala, Sammy?"

Sam let out a sigh of relief when the diner came into view, the Impala visible in the parking lot. Sam got Dean's attention and pointed toward the car. "I left it right where we could find it." He wasn't sure if Dean's forced cheerfulness was going to last any longer than his energy, which he could feel ebbing as Dean stumbled again, almost going down on his knees. Sam helped Dean lay down in the back seat, threw their old golf blanket over him, and ran around to get in behind the wheel.

Just as he put the car in reverse, the waitress from before dashed out of the restaurant, waving a bag excitedly. He rolled down the window and she thrust the bag into his hands. "Please don't leave without your order! I was so worried about you." Peering into the back seat, she frowned, and said "Is he alright?"

"Just tired from too much sightseeing." Sam thanked her and drove them back to the motel.

Dean started and kept up a running dialog from the back seat, just audible. "Air cleaner assembly chrome top neck flange. Base plate, ah, 14 OD something with a 5-1/8" flange, chrome finish. Yeah, like that matters under the hood." Humming a bit to himself, Dean muttered, "Intake manifold height 5.9 inches. Um, port size 1.87 by 1.8. Pretty sure, maybe 1.7 or…. The power band though is 3,000 to 7,500 RPM, single four, um, manifold single plane… square bore carb mounting flange. Flanges are hot, Sam. The Impala has a _lot_ of things with flanges. The Holley's a single deep open plenum one, power band um hundred to 85 which I thought was better but Bobby said go for the Weiand… and Weiand has all those flanges." Sam had no idea when Dean had had the time to memorize a parts catalog. Maybe it was one of those things he did while Sam was at Stanford and never talked about. He ran out of steam a few minutes before Sam pulled into the motel lot and parked in front of their room, but when he opened the back door to get Dean out, he saw that his lips were still moving.

Dean roused enough to walk into the room but wouldn't eat, not even the pie, which almost convinced Sam it was the apocalypse. It didn't stop him from eating both Dean's piece and his, but the burger went in the trash. Dean was conscious but spacey and when Sam asked him about the phone call, Dean's look was all confusion. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want painkillers, but did want to switch channels on the TV so often that Sam threatened to crush the remote. He carefully didn't mention cleaning weapons. Dean seemed nervous and distracted, wiping his hands, constantly standing and starting toward the door only to return somewhat shakily to the bed. Sam stood with him the first five times, ready to stop him, but decided to sit out the rest unless or until Dean actually opened the door.

He knew Dean was trying to fight this thing but Sam was convinced if he didn't get some relief soon, his body was going to give out. Sam walked over to check him again, startling Dean so badly he stopped reciting lyrics mid word. Sam was pretty sure it was Creedence. Dean's hair was spiked up and his shirt drenched with sweat, the TV was proof enough he couldn't concentrate, and his coordination and reaction times were shot. Check, check and check, damn it. His fever spiked back up as the evening progressed, and between that and his exhaustion he finally stopped his stop and starts around the room, but he turned him as pale as the bed sheets.

He convinced Dean to take a few more Tylenol, slippimng two Vicodin into the water. It was counterintuitive, but Vicodin's opiates would actually reduce the effect of the suggestion. The trouble was a normal dose didn't last long enough to allow either of them any uninterrupted sleep. Dean lay down on Sam's bed still quietly rambling, and at one point tried to get up to do laundry. Sam easily prevented him from going out to buy detergent. Once he got Dean up off the bed by the door and settled on the protected bed, the Vicodin took him down pretty quickly.

Sam reassembled his Devil's Tower in front of the door, and took a shower before getting into his own bed, bringing the laptop with him. He jerked awake sometime later when Dean fell near the foot of his bed. He swung himself out of bed, and once he had Dean standing, helped him to the bathroom and tried not to pace as he waited outside the door. When Dean came out, Sam took his elbow to guide him back, only to be brushed off. Dean made it, only swaying a little, but sat down heavily on the bed when he reached it. "Did you hear something?"

Dean turned his head toward Sam but his eyes didn't track properly. "No. It feels like it's just waiting. I don't want to answer it, but when it happens, I can't … stop, I just have to go." He let Sam help him lay down and pulled the covers up again.

Sam said, "It's OK Dean, I blocked the door. You aren't going anywhere without me."

Dean nodded and closed his eyes. He appeared to fall asleep almost immediately, but Sam waited a few minutes to make sure he was truly down again before going back to sleep himself.

OOOOO

Dean was out of the bed and moving so fast he ran right into the construction in front of the door before he could stop. He tried to remember why the door was blocked, but he didn't have time, he had to answer the phone, and the music was pulling and pulling him toward the door, and it wouldn't let up and the phone was ringing … in one motion, he heaved the table away from the door just as jolts of pain cut through his head and shoulder. He bent over, holding his ears. He thought he heard someone scream but the music was too loud to be sure.

Then Sammy was there and he was not letting him out the door. Sam was saying something but it was drowned out and he didn't care because damn it, he had to get to the phone and what the hell was Sam doing? Without knowing how, he found himself on a bed and watched as Sam disappeared out the door. Fuck, Sam was going to answer the phone. Heart racing, he lurched forward, got himself up to a run, and launched himself at Sam pushing him roughly away from the phone. No matter what, he couldn't let him answer it. He got the receiver to his ear, straightening to attention, and shouted, "Dad, no! Not to Sam!"

Sam was back, taking the receiver from him and putting it to his ear. Dean yelled, panicked, and scrambled frantically to knock the receiver away but Sam held Dean at the length of his orangutan arm and Dean couldn't reach it. Sam listened for a minute before holding the receiver over his head and shouting "Dean, it's EVP. There's EVP on the line, it's a god damn spirit. _Dean, listen to me. It's not Dad!!"_

The music stopped. Dean found Sam's gun in his hand and he couldn't remember how it got there but he sure as hell knew exactly what to do with it. He looked up but Sam only had eyes for the gun, finally looking at Dean in what could only be shock. Dean aimed it but Sam was in the way, so he shouted, "Move, damn it", and that worked, and he squeezed 8 rounds into the phone. He dropped his arm, and dropped the gun, and closed his eyes. He felt Sam pull and tug him back to the room which was OK because the fucking phone had stopped ringing. The pain in his shoulder was making his eyes water. Sam shut the door behind them just as their few neighbor's doors started to open.

OOOOO

Sam was gulping in air as he closed the door behind them. He pushed Dean toward the bed, but before either of them could sit down, the room phone rang. Sam answered it, sure it was the motel manager, but all he heard was the white noise of EVP. He slammed down the phone, just as Dean's cell started to ring, then his own, then the room phone again. Dean was barely standing – he made no move to answer any of them. Sam turned both cells off and shoved them in the dresser drawer before unplugging the room phone from the wall. As he turned to Dean, he heard the laptop chime incoming mail over and over just as Dean fell to his knees, hands over his ears, shouting "Stop! No, I won't! Please stop! No, I won't! I can't!"

He got Dean on his feet and walked him into the bathroom, dragging one of the room chairs with them. Dean wasn't shouting anymore, but he didn't stop repeating his mantra of "Please" and "Stop" and "I won't, I can't". Sam checked him for weapons, but there wasn't that much even Dean could hide in a t-shirt and boxers. He pulled Dean's head around to face him and shook him gently, calling his name, until Dean opened his eyes long enough to track on Sam's face.

"I have to leave the room for a few minutes and I need to know you're safe. You need you to stay in here for me." As he closed the door between them he watched the mounting panic in Dean's eyes. He repeated his own mantra, saying "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry, but I need you to stay in the bathroom. Can you do that for me? I have to do this," as he wedged the chair back up under the door knob. He said it again, whispering, as he heard Dean throw himself against the door. He said it once more, louder so Dean could hear him only to be met with a desperate cry of pain and betrayal.

"Don't leave me in here, God, Sam, please. I can't keep the music out. Please Sammy, please! Don't leave me in here alone!"

It took everything in him to turn his back on his brother. He pulled on his jeans, picked up the EMF meter, and stepped outside, closing the door on his brother still begging for release. As he looked left toward the pay phone, damn it if didn't start to ring. Which was impossible. He reached the phone and lifted what was left of the receiver and disconnected the call. He let the receiver drop and almost jumped when it hit the ground. He hadn't noticed that one of Dean's shots had severed the metal cord.

The phone started to ring again 10 seconds later. He backed away, EMF meter squealing. He was going to set that piece of shit phone on fire. As he moved toward the room, he heard the phone in the room he was passing start to ring, then the next and the next in empty rooms. Payphones in every direction were next to start, next door, the gas station, all over. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when the motel office phone began to ring, then phones all through the motel. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The EMF meter produced a final squirt of noise in the silence.

Sam was abruptly terrified. He burst back into the room, dragged the chair away from the bathroom door, shouting, "I'm back, Dean, it's me, I'm opening the door!" He ripped the door open and found Dean on the floor, holding the blade from his broken razor in his right hand and methodically running it in perfectly spaced cuts up his left forearm. Blood dripped onto the floor. His eyes skipped to the shredded shower curtain, to the towel rods ripped from the wall, to the hand holding the razor, awash in blood.

Dean smiled tightly, eyes too wide open, pupils blown, and said, eerily calm, "I really didn't want to be left in here, Sam."


	12. The multitool of champions

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too.

A/N: My profound thanks to the lovely and talented Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Dean was embarrassed by how relieved he was to see Sam open the door. All he wanted to do was get out of the bathroom but Sam wouldn't let him until he'd washed his arm, and wrapped it, and he remembered something about that, but his mind skittered away to concentrate on the towel racks on the floor. He glanced down when Sam asked him to wash his right hand, shocked to see so much blood. He worriedly checked Sam – anything could have happened to him out there. "Did you get hurt?"

"No Dean, I'm fine. You cut your arm."

He sounded awful. "You sure you're OK?" Sam uh-huh'ed, and held him in place. He looked again at the door, anxious to get out. Sam finally let him leave the bathroom and led him to a chair where he sat while Sam dragged the table back and set up the desk lamp. Sam was saying something, but when he turned back to see what it was, Sam had his head down. He tried again to remember what he had been thinking in the bathroom, but every time he did, his stomach started to hurt and he began to sweat. Damn it, he needed Metallica, he needed Pink Floyd, he needed to be up and doing something, anything – he kept checking the room, scanning the beds, counting the boats in the seascapes hanging on the wall, and that helped, so he counted socks on the floor but there weren't enough. He heard Sam say sorry, and absently told him it was alright, and tried to count hairs on the back of his right hand but they were too light and he kept losing count. He checked the salt line around his 'away from the door' bed and it looked good and solid, but when he went to get up to add a salt circle to Sam's 'near the door' bed, Sam got his attention and asked him to wait until he was done.

Dean started counting out _Enter Sandman_, and picturing the Impala's brake assembly tried to count the flanges because they were cool and there must be some in the brakes. Sam caught his right hand and put a couple of band aids on his thumb. Must have done something, but he couldn't think about it. It wasn't until Sam said his name sharply that he looked at him.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch Dean. Try to hold still" and Dean watched him pour alcohol directly over some cuts on his left arm that were bleeding sluggishly. Dean hissed air over his teeth and looked at his arm with mounting alarm. When he reached over to touch one of the cuts, Sam slapped his hand away. "Whoa Dean, they're shallow but I've got to get a pressure bandage on them." Dean pulled back his arm, suddenly getting an image of a razor blade and blood, and so not going there, he tried to stand up, but Sam got his attention again. "Please … hold still for a minute while I finish this." When he tried to get up a second time, Sam asked quietly, "Can you hold your arm still, Dean?"

Dean felt himself start to shake and he could hear his blood rushing. What the hell? He didn't know he was talking until he heard himself, "I … I don't think so. I don't want to, I can't, I can't stop. It helps. I have to keep moving, or I'll…"

Great, now he sounded like a moron and he wasn't even sure why he had said that. Dean dropped his gaze, breathing heavily and picked at a band aid on his right thumb. "I don't, I don't want to…"

"What will happen if you stop?"

He was suddenly on his feet, not even aware he had stood, his breathing out of control, too fast, spots in his eyes, and he was furious. He shouted at Sam, "No, I can't, can't… quit asking me!" He had to drop his hands to his knees, and pulled in air, watching more black spots appear in front of him.

Sam was suddenly right next to him, holding his shoulders. "Dean! God, I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything. You hear me, you don't have to say anything! Just breathe."

He felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease, and Sam was saying, "Come on, you've got to breathe slower or you'll pass out. Everything's OK, I got you, everything's OK" which shouldn't have helped that much but it did. When he could, he sat down heavily and put his left arm back on the table. Sam quietly finished bandaging his arm, his brow furrowed in thought.

Sam asked, "Are you supposed to kill yourself?"

It was like an electric current right through him – pain shot through his head, his back went rigid, and he felt his breath hitch. He closed his eyes, pressing hands against his head, clutching at the source of his agony. This had to stop, he couldn't let it, he wasn't sure about anything other than not talking about this. "No. No, I didn't say that. Damn it, Sam, I told you to quit asking me."

"You didn't say anything, Dean, I'm sorry." Dean looked up and glared at him until Sam's eyes dropped back to the table and he started repacking the first aid kit. "I promise, I won't ask again. Let's talk about the other night at the Home Depot instead. Can you talk about that?"

Dean carefully considered the subject matter and felt no corresponding spike in his heart beat or breathing. It was apparently OK to talk about the hunt but he remained wary. This was Sam after all. "What's to talk about? We took care of it."

"What happened when we got separated? Do you remember? It was right after I went into the lighting department. You disappeared for a few minutes."

"Nothing big. I got out of plumbing in time to see that damn barbeque grill slam you backwards into the light bulbs but before I could get to you, I ended up in the office, you know, the one behind the registers." He looked up and squinted an eye. "That was about it. I found you right after I got free of the wires."

"What wires?"

Dean walked toward the door and back, moving around the room. "There were wires and conduits and shit all over the place. They must have been doing some construction…" his voice trailed off as something on his bed seemed to catch his attention.

"You were telling me you got tangled up in the wires?"

"Yeah, no big deal though. I got caught up somehow, and heard a noise, kind of a humming noise. I got a pretty good shock at one point". He started to empty his pockets onto the dresser. "Not sure how I forgot that." He opened the dresser drawers methodically, and upon finding his phone, checked the display but it was off, and lost interest. He started to drum on the TV.

"Anything else happen? Any other noises?"

"I'm pretty sure the phone rang right when everything went sparky." His eyes grew wider. "I thought there was some kind of short. You don't think that had somethin' to do with this, do you, 'cause that would be seriously crazy. It was just a shock, nothing to it."

Oh crap, now he couldn't talk about this either. Slowing down his breath, he caught sight of the TV and checked his watch. "Is there something on you want to see – Leno, no, maybe Conan?"

OOOOO

Sam brought Dean back to the table again, and held his right wrist tightly. "Dean this is really important. I need to know what you were thinking in that room." He reached forward and tapped Dean's cheek, bringing his attention back around. "Look at me. What were you thinking in that room?" He took a breath, hating himself, but if it worked, it would be worth it, and said in a deep voice, "Tell me right now, Dean, what were you thinking in that room? Did you want to die?"

Dean's reaction was immediate. "No sir, I didn't." He looked at Sam a little oddly, but kept talking. "I was thinking that I'd let Sam get hurt again." He straightened his shoulders, looked Sam right in the eyes and said with evident self loathing, "Like I always do. I always end up getting you hurt."

"How did you hurt me that night?" Dean looked a little confused. Sam rephrased the question. "How did Sam get hurt that night?"

"He got thrown into glass and got cut up, he got a slash on his left shoulder, a bad one. I should have kept him safe."

"You were two aisles over wearing plumbing fixtures as hats. How could you have stopped it?"

"I don't know – maybe I could have been faster, or destroyed all the fucking barbecue equipment when we came in the store before that grill had a chance to smash into him. Ah, you, smash into you. You were the one getting stitches in your back." He shook his head, looking down. "Dad was right, he's always right."

"Right about what?" When Dean didn't answer, he asked, "What did Dad tell you?"

"He told me that I screwed up again just like before. You broke your arm in sixth grade, remember?" fixing overly bright eyes on Sam. When he nodded, Dean continued. "He said that was my fault since I shouldn't have been on the other side of the playground. But I was watching you. You just wanted to play with your friends. There shouldn't have been anything wrong with that but I let my guard down and you got hurt." Dean took a deep breath. "The shtriga almost got you. I let you get drenched that time we built the snow fort and you caught pneumonia. You could have died. You don't know the half of how I put you in danger and got you hurt but Dad knew … knows. You don't know even a quarter of the times. If Dad hadn't been around to protect you from me, I don't know how you would have made it to 18, I swear I don't." His voice had gradually been getting louder, and now Dean was practically shouting. "And I couldn't let you talk to him, Sam. I couldn't. It's bad enough he knows. I can't let you know too." With that he stood and walked away, his back to his brother.

"God, Dean, that isn't true – you know that isn't true! Dad never blamed you when I broke my arm. You saved me over and over when we were kids. None of that was your fault, none of it!" Dean didn't react or turn. "You save me every day. You'd never hurt me." Still no reaction. If there was anything else he could possibly say that would help, he couldn't even imagine it. This god damned monster had picked out Dean's guilt and pumped it full of steroids, coated it with lies, twisted it out of recognition, and slid it back to Dean as the truth, like a knife blade between his ribs because it was in Dad's voice. Oh, and hypnotizing him to do it. He was torn between anger and despair and felt tears running down his cheeks.

By the time he pulled himself together, Dean had mayflied off again, and was industriously rooting under his bed pulling things out left by previous guests, his inability to concentrate cushioning him from or making him forget the emotional turmoil he had just been in. He came up holding a paperclip, exclaiming "The multi-tool of champions!" before he reached under Sam's bed, hitting the top of his left forearm on the bed frame.

Sam really really needed time to finish his research and Dean was on the point of collapse. And if he didn't collapse, Sam would be forced to kill him. He'd already dumped both duffles upside down and covered the bathroom mirror in shaving cream. He checked a bookmarked page one more time. This at least he could now do something about. He just needed something shiny. He approached Dean, and dragged him out from under the bed. "That's pretty gross." He checked his bandages but they were holding. "Hey Dean, can I borrow your amulet for a minute." Dean obligingly pulled it over his head and handed it to Sam before angling over to the dresser where he started emptying Sam's wallet, fidgeting everything out piece by piece and laying each one out in a grid on the dresser top.

Sam held the amulet's cord, and started to twirl it between his fingers. He moved the desk lamp's shade so that the light hit it directly. He looked up and sure enough, Dean's eyes were locked on it. Sam gradually allowed the amulet to swing a little, and said to Dean, "You watching this?"

Dean nodded, and said "Yeah".

Sam let it swing, and said conversationally, "See how the light reflects as it goes back and forth?" Dean didn't respond but his eyes were starting to track it. "It's beautiful isn't it, so shiny, you just want to keep your eyes on it. You want to keep your eyes on it don't you?" He could watch Dean now, sure he had captured his attention. Dean nodded again. "Very good. Just watch it go back and forth, back and forth." He'd tried this in his Psych 101 class at Stanford, and would never have guessed that Dean would be susceptible. Of course, he reminded himself, that was before something a lot more powerful than Sam had slammed Dean, hypnosis-wise, upside the head.

"You are relaxed, very relaxed, standing comfortably. You start to take deep slow breaths. You are starting to feel very tired. Your eyes are getting heavy, heavier and heavier. It's getting hard to keep them open. You want to keep watching the amulet, but you can't keep your eyes open anymore." Dean's eyes were mere slits, his breathing was regular, his hands loose by his side. "You are so tired now that your eyes close. Picture the amulet in your mind's eye, as it goes back and forth, back and forth."

Dean was totally out, eyes closed, head moving almost imperceptibly. Sam took a deep breath. According to his psych professor, the process only really worked if the person being hypnotized totally trusted the hypnotizer. This time he would deserve that trust. This time he wasn't going to screw it up. He would make sure of it.


	13. Lady Luck’s favorite chew toys

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too.

A/N: My profound thanks to my lovely and talented beta Merisha. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Sam had to be very careful. He needed to 'overwrite' whatever Dean was trying so hard to fight without creating anything worse. He gently pulled Dean back to the chair and had him sit down while he planned out what he was going to say. He needed something so attractive that thinking about it would take precedence over the prior suggestion. And he knew just what would do it too. "Hey, Dean. I found a hunt for us. You and I are going to hunt down one evil son of a bitch and toast its ass tomorrow night. You with me?" Dean nodded. "It's really important. I need you to think about the hunt, help me plan the hunt, and do the hunt, instead of thinking about anything you heard on the phone or what they told you to do. OK?"

Dean spoke quietly, "OK".

He repeated this a couple of times, quietly insisting Dean listen again and again. Once he was satisfied, he said, "Now, I'm going to ask you to open your eyes in a few minutes. When I do, a couple of things are going to happen. First, you aren't going to hear a phone, any phone, ring for …", he counted out the time and threw in a couple of hours to be safe, "… 36 hours. You'll be able to see them, but they won't be important to you… um, unless I tell you". That could have gone better. He thought for a minute more before continuing. "Day after tomorrow, after 2 PM, phones will be back to normal. Second, you won't be able to hear the music from the phone playing in your head. Third, when you open your eyes, all you'll want to do is go to bed. You'll fall asleep quickly, and sleep until the alarm goes off. Do you understand?"

Dean said "Yep. No phones, no music, go to bed, alarm."

Sam said, "OK Dean, on the count of three, open your eyes". He dropped Dean's amulet back around his neck as his eyes opened. If Dean remembered what had happened, he didn't mention it, and was sound asleep, snoring softly, in under five minutes. Sam even let him have his knife back. Sam once again blockaded the room door, and muted the ringer on the room phone just in case it tried to ring without being plugged in.

The other night he and Dean had gone in to the store to conduct a poltergeist removal. It was beginning to look like they'd arrived just in time to welcome a more sinister addition to the property. Of course they did. They were Winchesters after all, the bitch Lady Luck's favorite chew toys. He dug up the article he'd read in the diner, unbelievably only 2 days ago, on rerouting rush hour traffic due to work on telephone lines. Their reconnoiter to the Home Deport yesterday not only confirmed an active construction site in front of the building, but also the AT&T logo on the trucks and equipment. A search of the lot's previous owners placed a Bell Telephone office building on the land in the 30's – a building that burned to the ground. He'd know better tomorrow, but it sure did look like the recent excavations had disturbed something. Smothering a yawn, he pulled himself into bed, setting the alarm for 9 o'clock.

The next morning, the only unusual effect of Sam's late night intervention appeared to be to Dean's checklist. Without hesitation, Dean counted off his essentials but skipped over his cell phone, even though he had to move it in order to pick up his wallet. He didn't hesitate or think twice, just headed for the door, looking back over his shoulder to collect his brother. He'd also pulled off the bandage from the cut on his temple, which really did look a lot better, and refused to wear the sling another day. Sam pocketed Dean's phone with his and walked out to the Impala. Dean was ravenous and ate a staggering amount of bacon at an all day breakfast place he'd apparently spotted their first day in town. He read the paper, talked with Sam about what he'd researched the night before, and drank cup after cup of coffee. Whatever this was hadn't given up – Sam felt both cell phones, set to vibrate, go off over and over in his pocket, and the restaurant's phone was ringing constantly. Even so, Sam saw no return of the concentration and coordination problems Dean had been suffering the day before. He turned off both cells when Dean went to the bathroom, and watched as Dean walked past a ringing pay phone without missing a beat. The jury was still out, but maybe this time he hadn't fucked up.

At the Central Library, Sam combed newspaper archives while Dean did what Dean usually did in a library. He complained that the screen hurt his eyes, he shuffled paper, made popping noises, asked Sam what he was looking at, and finally, to Sam's intense relief, started walking. He toured the library, dropping off a random selection of books in front of Sam each time he swung by on his circuit. Once he smuggled in coffee, stopping for a few minutes to leaf through a couple of his finds, humming loudly, before starting off again. Sam lost track of him at one point, but he resurfaced after an hour or two safe enough, very pleased to have found Krystal on one of his tours of the second floor. This time he sat back at the table with Sam and dropped a small piece of paper, before pulling one of his stacks of books toward him with his good arm. He listened as Sam reviewed his research and scanned a book on horror movies.

Sam picked up the piece of paper to find Krystal's name and phone number. Dean must not be able to pay attention to phone numbers either. He tucked it in his wallet to give to Dean later. He said, "It's got to be the building fire. Seventeen people were trapped and died, including twelve operators."

Dean looked up at him, mouth dropping open. "Seventeen? This sounds like the bridge all over again. Unless we stack bodies up like kindling, we'll never salt and burn them all. It would take weeks."

Sam couldn't help a small look of disgust. "This is awfully morbid, but they already were kindling. According to the report 'no recognizable remains' were found. They were burned into ash. What little remained of the building was encased in a cement shroud. Here's a picture of the plaque they added", and turned the microfilm reader around to face Dean. "I can't prove it was disturbed, but it's an easy conclusion to make with the construction on the same site. We should check that before it gets too late."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, Sam, look, I'm sorry. I meant to tell you. I kind of went back to the Depot already."

"Mr. Let's Not Split Up 'kind of went' to the site without telling me? How long ago was that?"

"I got back just before I ran into Krystal." Sam sighed, loudly. "I'm serious Sam. If you ever saw her, you'd probably go blind in some kind of freak book lover's reaction." Dean glanced over.

Not willing to take the bait, Sam said, "So what did you find out?"

OOOOO

Boy, Sam really looked pissed. "You know that if something hit you on the back right now your expression would get stuck like that forever, right? Well, then. Um, sorry I forgot to tell you but you know, you are one excellent researcher, you really are." Sam rolled his eyes but his expression didn't change. "The excavation foreman said they had broken a corner of the shroud the day before we went for the poltergeist. They are going to repair it tomorrow."

"Which means we can get to it tonight. I still don't know how this thing got so much control over the phone lines."

Dean sucked in his bottom lip. "Maybe it's not so much the individual people who died. I mean, there's nothing all that normal about what happened last night. You told me that phone rang even after I blew it away, right?"

Sam looked through his notes. "It spammed my email account too. And no, you aren't going to look at one of them. I had to turn the program off."

You think they're still coming in?"

"Yeah, last I checked. All it sends is white noise." He cleared his throat. "The cause of the fire was never determined which led to intense speculation that the fire was a sign of something - exactly what was never agreed on. The phone really was a huge cultural shift. Telephone lineman was actually the most dangerous job with Bell, so the fact that the fire killed so many women gave it kind of a cult status, like telephone lore. Hey, what was that movie where all the bad guys drove around in 'TPC' trucks? It turned out TPC stood for 'The Phone Company'."

Now it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "The President's Analyst with James Coburn, you anti-culture moron." The mention of linemen had got him thinking. There was something right on the tip of his tongue. He snatched up the book on horror movies again. "I knew I remembered something, but I couldn't get a bead on it." He flipped through the book, and opened it and showed the heading to Sam.

"Maybe the music did make you crazy. 'It Came From Outer Space'?"

"Hey, Ray Bradbury wrote it and you like him, you geek. You read that one book so many times I had to replace it twice. Give me a minute… the lead is driving out in the middle of nowhere when he sees a couple of _telephone linemen_. They have this conversation", he pointed out the section, "Here. The actor, Carlson, goes to talk to the guys, and one of them talks about hearing noises in the wires. One of the lineman says, 'Might be somebody up that way tapping the lines... or back that way listening to us like we're listening to him.' Think about it – there's over a million and a half miles of telephone wire strung in the US and Canada." He dipped into his stack of collected books and selected one on interesting trivia he'd pulled from the Reference section. "That's a lot of wire, and some of it's been up for a really long time. What if something _was_ listening and maybe it overcharged those spirits?"

Sam was gaping at him, but collected himself and said, "It would be kind of like the tulpa last year. I'll work on that angle." After a pause, he asked, "Did you pick up this book to look up miles of phone line?"

"Actually, I was looking for more stupid crook stories. Or martial arts stuff. But I did look to see if there were any telephone facts." This time he chewed on his bottom lip. "Lineman, lineman… there's something else." He looked at Sam with a dawning expression of disgust. "Lineman. I knew it." He got up and this time snagged a children's book on famous things about Wichita, flipping pages furiously. He caught Sam's expression, and shrugged. "Krystal was in the kid's section. I knew I recognized it. Damn it."

"Dean, it's a library. Keep your voice down. What did you recognize?"

"That music. The music that was making me crazy. I picked this book up to see if there was something about the fire but … wait, here it is. 'I hear you singing in the wire', a 'haunting ballad' – oh, that's just perfect. Of course I knew the song – you can't be from Kansas and not know it." He showed the book to Sam like it was story time. "It's Glen Campbell. It's the _Wichita_ fucking_ Lineman!"_

Dean was seething with impatience. "I want to go kill it right now, Sam. I want to blow that store into little tiny pieces. I want to get that song out of my head." When he saw Sam start to panic, he said, "Oh, sorry, didn't mean it was like yesterday. This time its just one of those tunes you hear and then can't stop humming."

"An 'ear worm'."

"Exactly – like in _Wrath of Khan_. 'They put creatures in our bodies.'" He hit the table with his fist. "I'm going to go nuts. Let's go and kill it right now!"

"Calm down – we'll be kicked out the library soon enough if you don't stop yelling. And it's not even dark." Dean watched him close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Please go for a walk. Take Krystal out back and ravish her. Go find Glen Campbell's grave and salt and burn _him_. Just do something other than talk about how much you want to waste this thing. It's not going to get dark any faster because we want it to."

"That just proves we need a spaceship. And dude, Glen Campbell isn't dead. And even if I killed him and desecrated his grave, which might be worth it, I don't think it would make me stop humming that song." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to take your advice and give Krystal a thorough perusal. She's stacked. I'll check her out again." He waved his hand in front of Sam's face. "Nothing? Maybe I can date stamp her, huh? Get it – _date _stamp?" He raised his hands in defeat as he walked away. "I swear you took your sense of humor out, beat it to death with a shovel, and buried it in the back yard of that house in Idaho when you were sixteen."

Sam called after him, "Dude, I was thirteen and I used your entrenching tool. And be back here by six!"

Before it was dark enough to leave for the hunt, Dean spent an enjoyable hour with Krystal, washed the car, cleaned the weapons, did his laundry but not Sam's, and restocked the first aid kit. He packed Sam and the supplies in the car, and drove back to Home Depot, parking a few blocks away.

They got in easily and headed to the front of the store, the EMF lit up and squealing as soon as they crossed the threshold. Sam planned to force whatever it was back into the memorial, then seal it, bless the site, and let the repair tomorrow lock whatever it was away again permanently. As Dean boosted himself over the help desk counter with the weapons duffle, Sam on his heels, the office door opened on its own. A man came out.

It was Dad.


	14. You shouldn’t look, Sam

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.

A/N: My profound thanks to Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are all mine.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

What got Dean at first was the smell – aftershave, leather, and gun oil. His hair was scruffy and his beard ragged and it was Dad, Dad looking just like he did the last time Dean saw him, _just before he died_. Dad in his leather coat, the coat he gave Dean years ago, the coat Dean knew was is in the Impala three blocks away. This was wrong, wrong in every way he could imagine, because Dad was dead and this wasn't him. But he was right there, solid, breathing … angry. Dean backpedaled as fast as he could, pushing Sam back before he got over the counter, and onto the floor. He hissed, "Stay down, Sam", never taking his eyes off the figure in front of him.

He slowly brought up the shotgun, barrel only inches from his father's chest. Not his father, damn it, he knew it wasn't Dad, but he lifted the beam of his flashlight to the thing's face and looked for yellow eyes. He heard Sam behind him, saying something, but Dad's eyes, oh God it wasn't Dad but it was, his eyes bored right into him, exposed him, pinned him like an insect to a board. He tried to tell Sam to shoot it, or run, but he'd started to feel lightheaded, unattached, while all of his sight and hearing were constricted to his Dad's face, his Dad's voice. His hands and arms went loose, dropping the shotgun and the duffle, unable to look away, or move, or think.

"It's time, Dean, you know what you need to do. You know what a danger you are to Sam." Dean nodded, but felt his eyes start to fill. "Oh, now you're going to cry? I didn't raise a weakling Dean, I raised a soldier. One who should have followed orders and protected his brother. It's the only thing I ever asked you to do."

Dad looked to one side. "Sam, we'll talk in a minute. Right now I need to talk to your brother. Wait for us." He made a gesture Dean didn't understand, but caught Dean's eyes again before he could turn. "You were supposed to care for him, keep him healthy and safe, weren't you?"

"Yeah Dad, I did. I did the best I could."

"The best you could? Your brother went hungry growing up. He got sick because of you. He broke his arm because of you. He got hurt on hunts because of you." Dad thundered at him, "You let him go to Stanford – how could anyone protect him there?"

It wasn't making any sense, none of this did. "I don't know why you're saying this. You were the one who told him to get out, Dad. You've got to remember. We ran out of money sometimes when you were late getting back. He always got my share when we were low. I went hungry before he did. I didn't have money to buy us winter clothes, but he always wore what I had until you got back."

"Oh, so this is my fault now? Is that what you are saying?"

"No, Dad, of course not, you always did your best but sometimes it wasn't my fault either." He took a hitching breath. "That time I shoplifted you just about killed me, but we needed the food. If I didn't have money, and you wouldn't let me steal it …"

"You should have earned it. I shouldn't have had to get you out of detention and find your brother with a foster family."

"Earned it? I was eleven. You aren't making any sense. It's just that you were gone for so long. I had to watch Sam, make sure he took his bath and did his homework and I had to pack his lunch and feed him. I had to practice, and clean the weapons, and go to school and do my own homework. I couldn't earn money!" He swallowed down tears and said, "God, why are you doing this to me?"

"Are you arguing with me?"

"No sir of course not, sir, it's just…"

"School, homework, for you? Don't make me laugh. You're just making excuses. Nothing's about you Dean, it never was. It's always about Sam. You could have starved for all I cared."

"You never said that Dad, you don't mean it. You said you were proud of me." Dean was shouting, unable to reconcile his last memory of Dad with the man in front of him. "I'll die before I let anything happen to him, you know that."

"No, Dean, if you don't' die y_ou_ are going to kill him. _You_ are by far the biggest danger to Sam. Look what that spook did to him at the bridge. Look at the cuts on his back. That's in just two days. He could have died, and it would have been your fault."

"I have to save him Dad, you told me to save him. Who'll protect him if I'm gone?" He could do no more than whisper now. He felt his knees buckle and dropped to the floor.

"Try to understand - you're what's killing him. Do you want me to do it for you, Dean? I will, I'll put you down like a dog if I have to. I won't let you hurt Sam again. Do it, and do it now."

"Of course Dad, you're right, you're always right. Yes sir." Dean pulled out his Colt, thumbed off the safety, and pushed it up under his jaw. He wished he could see Sam a last time, but felt some relief that he wouldn't see this happen. "You'll keep him away from me when this is done, right?"

"Just do it. I'll take care of Sam."

Dean swallowed, leaned his head back, and looked up. Sam was right over him! He took his finger off the trigger, infinitely relieved. The bullet's trajectory could have put it right into Sam if his skull didn't stop it. He moved the gun just enough to angle the barrel away from the most important person in his life.

"You shouldn't look, Sam" and pulled the trigger.

OOOOO

Sam was trying to haul the duffle out of Dean's hand when the fugly gestured and threw Sam like a Frisbee down the length of the store, sliding on his back, unable to slow down, until he crashed into a display of screen doors. He pulled himself out from under bent metal and spline, and charged back up the aisle only to be stopped like a fly in amber twenty feet from the counter. Close enough to hear it using his father's voice, twisting his brother's soul into knots, close enough to hear Dean's murmurs of acceptance, but not close enough to do anything to stop it. He was able to back up but found the barrier in place no matter how he approached. He lobbed a can of paint as hard as he could, but even at the ceiling the barrier held and ricocheted the can back, barely missing him.

He raced up and down the aisles, knowing exactly what he needed, but no idea where anything but the light bulbs and grills were. He found rubber boots and thick rubber gloves, setting them on a shelf as he raced by the power equipment. He skidded to a stop when he found it, almost missing it he was moving so fast, huffing out air in relief. He grabbed the bag, and hared off, building up speed, grabbing an end cap and slingshotting himself around and toward the front desk. There should have been a heavenly chorus accompanying him to the front of the store with his beautiful bag of rock salt.

He threw salt by the handful moving forward as the barrier dissolved in front of him. Just before he reached the counter, he saw Dean drop to his knees. Throwing a handful of salt in the thing's face to force it to dissipate, Sam vaulted the counter, barely missing his brother as he landed. He heard Dean say "You shouldn't look" but Sam's right arm was already moving, was moving when he was in the air, long legs up and to the side, body pivoting around his braced left arm, right arm moving and connecting with the gun, slapping it so hard Dean's arm swung around his back making him cry out in pain, and the Colt hit a counter 15 feet away still moving flat out horizontally.

The spirit was pulling itself together, streamers of black and white and brown, odors of dust, bleached sheets, Old Spice, glints of teeth, eyes, reflection off hair, blunt hands, broad shoulders, impossibly deep voice rumbling from the front of the car, and he felt like a kid, safe, home, hurt, Dad. Another handful of salt bought him a few minutes reprieve.

Fear soaked adrenalin surged, and Dean went over his left shoulder, hard, air pushed out of his lungs, starting to struggle, but Sam was off, duffle in his right hand. He was through a door and around a corner, out of line of sight, before he brought Dean off his shoulder and onto his feet. Dean stayed bent over, heaving in air, then straightened, and looked him in the eye as he brought Sam's Taurus up to his head. Sam sucker punched him, an uppercut to the chin, and dropped him where he stood. Dean's feet actually left the ground, head cracking backwards. Sam caught him before he hit the floor, frantically removed his knives and paperclips, grabbed for and found their handcuffs in the duffle, handcuffed him, and rolled and pushed and shoved until Dean was wedged tightly under a shelf of planters and potting soil, tucked behind a display of macramé plant hangers.

He didn't have long before Dean would be awake and literally surrounded by sharp, well, everything, so he was off again, away from Dean before the fugly appeared _there/here_, trying to catch Sam's ears and eyes, speaking of love and admiration, telling him he was special, the favorite. Sam shot it right in the heart without hesitation, and kept moving, cursing John and the false John at the top of his lungs.

He pulled on the boots, pushed the gloves and an axe into the duffle, put a huge ass battery powered chainsaw under his arm, and was back to the office and in without seeing the spirit. He started the ritual, in Latin this time, burning sage and rosemary, lighting candles and laying out patterns on the office floor in wax and ash. The spirit coalesced, drawn to the smoke, and trapped itself, impotent. John's appearance dropped away, leaving a flickering, black and white mass of images, faces and hands, eyes and hair, morphing constantly one into the other. Sam was pretty sure there would be seventeen faces if he had time to count. He finished the ritual, banishing the thing with a noise like busy signals and ringing phones. Pulling on the gloves, he powered up the chainsaw, and hoping he was insulated enough, and it was powerful enough, used it to slice through all the exposed wire he could find in the room, cutting everything back to the floor and wall, and right into the wallboard where he could.

Finished and exhausted, Sam slowly packed up. He found and packed Dean's gun, and left the borrowed items – gloves, boots, tools - neatly stacked by a register. He decided to keep what was left of the rock salt, so added four 1 bills to the stack. He walked back to Gardening where he sat down, leaning back on Dean's shelf unit. "You would have liked the chainsaw." When he received no reply, he twisted around and pushed a foot under the shelf, poking Dean in what he hoped were his ribs. "You awake?" Dean grumbled. Sam toed him again. "Dean, you waking up under there?"

Dean sneezed. "Yeah. Where the hell am I? What is my nose pressed against? And what the hell are those white things?"

"In Gardening. The underside of a shelf. Decorative macramé plant hangers."

Speaking slowly, as if to a child, Dean said, "And why am I under a shelf in Gardening, Sam? Why am I here," a small grunt and the sound of movement, "_handcuffed_, being poked and prodded by your ginormous feet, instead of", and Sam could just see Dean's eyes roll, "instead of, oh I don't know, anywhere else?"

"Do you still want to kill yourself?"

"Oh." After a short silence, Dean said quietly, "I don't think so. Do you want to hit me again?"

"No, I'm good. I'll get you loose."

Sam found the employee break room and made up an ice pack for Dean's chin. Outside, Dean led them to the area Bob had pointed out earlier in the day. The concrete structure was no more than waist high at its tallest, and only a few feet long. They wrote containment symbols in oil on the concrete, sprinkled salt, and deferentially burned an old rotary phone, a small answering machine, and a Wichita phone book. At the last minute, Dean threw a Glen Campbell cassette into the fire. Later that day, the concrete would be repaired, and the memorial itself sealed back safely. They would be in bed.

OOOOO

Epilogue and Bridge finale to go.


	15. Three, two, one

Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too.

A/N: My thanks to the lovely and talented Merisha for agreeing so kindly to beta my first fic. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine. As well, my thanks to Silver Ruffian, Scotia, and to all those who reviewed, alerted and favorite-ed the story. You just blew me away.

A/N 2: For those of you who alerted the story and didn't review, I hope you'll take the time to let me know your thoughts now that the story is complete.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Dean had to practically drag himself out to the car at 7 AM. He'd slept like a log, but he still felt like he could crawl back into bed and sleep another twenty four hours. Maybe forty-eight. Even after a shower, he had to rub his eyes to focus, and yawned as they drove back toward Kaw Lake. Crossing the bridge, they followed Sam's GPS uphill to a long switch back entrance drive. The house itself, when they reached it, was a beached trailer up on cinder blocks, surrounded by junked cars and hubcaps. It reminded them both a little of Bobby's place.

The 'farmer', whose license plates identified him as an Edward Dyson, watched them impassively from his front door as they got out of the Impala. Without even trying, Dean got a perfect unison door slam, but was too pissed to care. Sam had told him about their second run in with the guy, which only made him want to kill him even more than he had before. In the car, Sam had insisted he wait to throttle the guy until _after_ they found out if he had any information, damn it.

Dyson offered them coffee, which was surprisingly good, and they all three sat down at a picnic table overlooking a steep downward slope. They had a clear view of the road they had just traveled and the bridge below them, and a view of Kaw Lake in the distance. He was more than willing to talk, and confirmed a lot of what Dean had researched earlier. The area in general and the site of the bridge in particular, had a long and bloody history. Dyson knew of at least one battle taking place on the site during the forced relocation of the Cherokee, as well as a duel and subsequent murders during the land grab years. With a rare openness, Dyson voiced his opinion that the misery and pain surrounding the bridge had surely attracted the serial killer to it rather than the killer finding it by chance.

Sam continued to ask questions when Dean got up and walked the property. Dyson rarely took the bridge, in fact none of them out that way did, since there were much better ways to reach Kaw City and the interstate. The state had even scheduled the bridge for demolition in the next couple of years. Dean could hear most of what they said, but swung back to hear Dyson admit that he'd seen them on the bridge and, knowing what he did, had come down to check on them. He had an idea something bad had happened the other morning. Dean returned to stand by the table, impatient to leave. He barely thanked Dyson for the coffee, and made a pointed comment about returning to their boat and motoring off the property. Dyson made his annoying high pitched laugh again, and dragged them both to stand by the side of one of his outbuildings. With a grin, he said, "Don't peek!", and entered the building through the front, away from them.

OOOOO

Sam nudged him with his shoulder, and said "What now?", just as the throaty rumble of a V8 engine purred into life and Edward drove a mint Ermine White '67 Impala two door through the yard and around the front to park it next to theirs, Dean racing along beside it. While Dean was head first under the hood, pointing at flanges or something else technical, Sam pulled Edward to one side for a brief conversation. Dean re-emerged in time to see them exchanging phone numbers. He practically dragged Edward back to the cars, popping the hood of his car for a closer comparison.

After forty five minutes of serious car talk, which drove Sam to wander the edges of the property, and two more cups of coffee, Sam made their apologies and dragged his reluctant brother to their car. For a few minutes, Dean animatedly talked, asking Sam if he liked the lines of the two door version better than theirs, but wound down and started to yawn again. When he drove them onto the shoulder of the road, Sam banished him to the passenger side, and took the wheel. Dean fell asleep almost immediately, his lax hands shifting minutely with the movement of the car.

Once Sam got to 77, he settled in to brood. He was developing a plan and needed time to hold it up to the light and inspect it. He considered and rejected several options, then making his decision, called their Dad's friend Jefferson for a recommendation. He got into Wichita in time for lunch, and found himself at the diner of a few days before. It must be the fruit salad. He nudged Dean awake and convinced him to come inside. After a short flurry and some pushing amongst the wait staff, they were seated at the same booth at the back, and Judy appeared, somewhat out of breath, to pour them coffee.

Sam ordered the California plate again and looked across the table. Dean stretched, stifling a yawn, and looked up through his lashes at Judy. "Sorry, still sleepy I guess. I'll have the Rueben, extra sauerkraut. And pie." He rubbed his face, and smiled lazily. "And extra fruit salad for the Sasquatch there. Lots of maraschino cherries."

Judy stood slack jawed until Sam cleared his throat. When she finally forced her eyes over to him, he said dulcetly, "May I have my water now?"

Back in the car, Sam put the free pie and coffees on the seat between them. Dean put on sunglasses, pushed the sweater between his head and the window, and was asleep before Sam got out of the city, taking 135 north to Salina. Dean cracked an eye when he pulled in for gas, but snored through Sam's trip into an army surplus store and his exit through the back, loaded down with bags and boxes which he set extremely carefully in the back seat. Sam called Edward and told him to expect them around 6 PM. Dean woke long enough to wonder why they were coming into Wichita from the north, and watched with bleary eyed interest later as Sam liberated some City Works Department sawhorses from a construction site and threw them in the trunk. Sam didn't really think anything was wrong with Dean, at least nothing left over from the spirit. He was probably just making up for lost sleep. Sam drove them back to the bridge, crossed it one more time, and parked on the far side. He tried unsuccessfully to rouse his brother.

"Come on, Dean. I'm serious. Wake up. You are going to love this."

"G'way. I'll love it jus' as much tomorrow."

"You've been asleep all day. If you won't get up, you have to promise not to hold this against me.."

"Anything Sam, just leave me alone."

Sam grabbed the sawhorses, turned on their blinking yellow lights, and set them up to block the road about a quarter mile from either end of the bridge. He returned to the car, checked the time, and after unpacking the boxes and bags onto the Impala's trunk, settled down to read the user's manual.

OOOOO

When Dean woke next, he was alone in the car. He straightened up and stretched, surprised to find himself back at Ed's house. He got out and went in search of his brother, and found Sam and Ed sitting in lawn chairs a couple of yards from the picnic table, watching the sun set. Sam gestured first toward an empty chair with a beer bottle and then waved the bottle behind him. "Grab one from the cooler". Dean found the beer on the picnic table and dropped into the chair. "Decided to join the land of the living, sleeping beauty?"

"Oh, bite me." He nodded and clicked bottles with Edward. "To what do we owe the honor of a return visit?"

"Boy, it wasn't me. This little shindig is one hundred percent your brother's doing." He took a pull on the bottle. "Well, except for the beer and hot dogs. That was my idea."

Dean looked expectantly at Sam. "What shindig?"

Instead of answering, Sam stepped to the edge of the hill and used binoculars to scan the road below them. Dean got up and carried his beer over to stand next to him. "What's with the blinking lights?"

"I had to make sure the road was clear."

"Why do you need to clear the road?"

Sam put the binoculars down and walked a few steps to pick up something next to his chair. With a huge grin, flashing dimples, Sam ceremoniously handed Dean a small box with a plunger on the top. Dean inspected it and felt his eyes getting wider.

"This looks like one of those detonators they use when they blow up buildings." He looked at Sam. "Is it?"

Sam nodded. "It most certainly is. Wireless."

"I press this down and something blows up?" Almost breathless with excitement, he swung his left arm toward the bridge and almost sent his beer bottle down the hill. "The _bridge_ will blow up?" Another nod. "Sam, is it going to work?" He stared at the detonator with reverence.

"The detonator or spirit removal? Both should work just fine. The tulpa gave me the idea. If we can burn down the Murdoch house, we can certainly blow up a bridge. The spirits may still be there but no one will be around for them to hurt."

Edward joined them. "The bridge was going to be demolished anyway. The State won't rebuild it and they were planning to close the road. It'll give me more privacy – I'm all for that."

Dean looked at Sam again. "You got to play with C4 didn't you?" He shook his head. "Is that why you were trying to wake me up?"

"I'm not sure play is quite the right word, but yeah. I'll make sure you get to do it next time."

Dean drew in a deep breath, and regretfully handed the detonator to Sam. "You set it up, you should be the one who sets it off."

Sam smiled and put it back in his hand. "Think of it as a late birthday present." He checked the road again. "We need to do this before I can't see the road."

"I've always wanted to do this." Dean lifted the plunger, and started a count down at ten. Ed and Sam joined him for "three, two, one", and Dean pressed the plunger firmly down.

They felt the shock wave travel under their feet, the blast momentarily deafening them, and watched as in silence a cloud of dust and debris flew up, blocking the sunset, and parts of the bridge seemed to hang in the air, slowly spinning end over end. Sound came back as air filled the vacuum with a roar, and they heard and saw pieces of the bridge start coming back down to the ground, pattering up the hill. Dean had time to shout "Holy shit! How much did you use?" and then it was on them. They yelled and ran, Dean to lie on top of the Impala, while Sam sensibly fought Ed for the limited space under the picnic table.

When it was finally over, all they could see of each other were eyes and teeth, the rest of them covered in soot and dust. Dean ran back to the edge and jumped straight up, shooting his arms in the air, screaming. "That was one of the most awesome things I've seen in my life! It was fucking phenomenal."

When Dean had slowed down enough to breathe, they all three inspected the result, pointing out the larger pieces of the bridge now liberally scattered below them. Ed walked toward the house, and brought back a garden hose to rinse all of them down with impossibly cold water. He said, "I'll have a fire in a minute. Who's for hot dogs and s'mores?"

Laughing uncontrollably, both of them nodded. Sam said, "How's the car?"

"Fine – I caught most of everything on my back, I think." He tried to look over his shoulder, "Nothing really big made it that far. You?" Sam stepped behind him, and ran his hands down his back.

"I'm fine." He stepped back around as Dean turned toward him, an expression of horror on his face. The change was so sudden that Sam shouted, "Shit! What? What happened? Did I hurt something on your back?"

"No … it's just … damn it Sam … _now_ what am I going to get you for your birthday?"

OOOOO

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who read the story. My new story, Canaveral, will begin to post in a few weeks.


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